Busty Lactating Mother Needs Help

I was in my second year of teaching, living in a second-floor flat of a row house. It was a nice enough neighborhood, but anything but a prosperous one. It was a cold and blustery Sunday evening and I was preparing a Christmas exam for my grade ten science class on my typewriter, a fresh pot of coffee on the brew. It was going to be a long night. The outline was complete, it just needed it to be typed. Carefully. Dittos were unforgiving of mistakes.

The apartment was warm despite the cold temperatures outside. It was an old house and the thermostat was in the first-floor flat -- I was subject to the whims of my housemate as far as the ambient temperature was concerned. Usually in the high 70's, I used a fan to blow the hot air around and often wore a light housecoat or rugby shorts for comfort.

I had just sat down with a fresh mug, ready to start when the doorbell rang, catching me by surprise. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone to be calling and it was dark out already, well after dinner time. I cinched up my housecoat and ambled down the stairs to answer the front door, mug in hand, turning on the hall light as I did so.

I wasn't sure who I was expecting, but the poor, bedraggled young lady who greeted me was an eye opener. She looked miserable and she was not dressed appropriately for the cold fall night. She was shivering, her small denim jacket and matching miniskirt totally inadequate for the freezing temperatures. I immediately invited her inside to get us both out of the blustering breeze that was blowing through the open door, curious as to what had brought this attractive young lady to my doorstep.

She appreciated being in from the cold and she was blowing into and rubbing her hands together to warm them as she stamped her feet. She looked enviously at my steaming mug of coffee as she introduced herself as Beth. It all came tumbling out : she was a nursing mother and she had just left her husband. She and her son lived close by with her mother and they needed money desperately. She was going door-to-door looking for work. Any kind of work.

I told her that I didn't think that I could help, but that if she would like a cup of coffee, I would be glad to invite her in and let her warm up, which she gratefully accepted. She was about to slip out of her heels at the bottom of the stairs when I encouraged her to keep them on. She was pleased as I let her proceed me up the stairs into my apartment, her denim-clad cheeks sashaying before my eyes. It was, no doubt, deliberate.

I had let her get several steps up ahead of me for precisely this reason. An upskirt! The skirt was shorter than it should be (had she hiked it up?) and flared out, revealing flashes of bare thigh with each step she took. She must have been freezing wearing stockings. Her perfume was both pleasant and arousing, something that I wasn't used to working in a scent-free environment at school. She paused at the top of the stairs to let me catch up. I had no doubt that she was aware that her short, flared skirt had given me an eyeful. I had a hardon already from the show she had put on climbing those stairs. Did she notice?

I showed her into the kitchen and poured her a coffee while topping up my own. I let her prepare it to her liking before I led her to the living room. She was soft-spoken and the noisy fan was going to make conversation difficult, so I immediately turned it off. We stood there awkwardly for a moment before she noticed a few medals and trophies I had on display in my bookcase and wandered over to have a gander. As she bent at the waist to have a closer look, the hem of her skirt rose, the panels of her stockings clearly visible.

As she straightened back up again up, her curiosity was obviously piqued. She asked me about them and I told her that I had been a swimmer in high school and had been a breaststroke champion. Her eyebrows rose at that and she sported an amused grin, quipping that perhaps I should give her husband some lessons. I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I just let it go. She also noticed a couple of photo albums on the shelf that caught her eye and asked me if I had any shots wearing a Speedo. I ignored that question as well, her insight spot on. She might have been soft-spoken but she was sharp - both forward and bold - I liked her already.

I invited her to sit down on the futon, the only item of furniture I had that offered a padded seat. It was a cheap piece, built too close to the floor. It was awkward to both get into and out of and Beth had to put her coffee down in order to try and sit down gracefully. Her short skirt complicating her attempts at modesty and I saw far more bare thigh than she would have intended. Or so I imagined.

Sitting now, her cheeks were lower than her knees and it was not easy to keep them together on the low-slung couch. As she reached to pick up her coffee, I was treated to another immodest flash of bare thigh. She asked again about the two albums - she had noted my elusiveness. I told her I was hesitant in letting her peruse one of them, but that just hardened her resolve, she became insistent. It contained some rather risqué poses from a photoshoot just after my 18th birthday close to ten years ago. I was normally not in the habit of sharing it with anyone.

However, her disarming boldness and uncompromising attitude brokered no denial. I gave her my first album which was a more mundane collection of photos over the years but she was having none of that, insisting on starting with the second album first. She had seen right through my ruse. I placed them both in front of her on the coffee table as I sat opposite her in my office chair, behind the typewriter. I was reminded that I still had an exam to prepare.

She was making a production out of this. As she opened the album dramatically, she was playing this out for all it was worth. Blowing on her fingertips as though the album was hot. Although I was playing up my reluctance to let her see it's contents, I was thrilled that she had insisted. I was a closet exhibitionist and this collection of photos did me proud. I was now at full mast knowing that she was going to see pics of me in all my glory moments from now. I was having difficulty hiding my hardon and was struggling with whether to even try.

It was a collection of twenty-four 8 by 10 glossies from an afternoon photoshoot arranged for by my girlfriend for my 18th birthday. Her aunt was a budding professional photographer who was now quite well known. This had been her first real attempt at boudoir photography with a male subject and she had done a great job of getting me to relax and loosen up. She had a number of props and skimpy outfits for me to model, including a loincloth.

I was a tall, competitive swimmer with a slim, muscular build, used to wearing skimpy Speedos in front of an audience. Her touch-feely approach and encouragement had enabled me to put on a show for her and the camera. My initial embarrassment with my own nudity and sporting a hardon during the setup in her studio was dispelled by her encouragement and her own display of sexuality and nudity. Our shots got more and more intimate. She felt that an erection was not to be wasted and that they enhanced the allure of a photo. The last half hour of the shoot had been sans Speedo, thong or briefs. Some of these shots I was just about to share with Beth.

Beth was taking her time with the album, in no apparent hurry. The first dozen or so shots were relatively standard beef cake type poses. A half dozen clad erections and peekaboo poses and finally six full nudity shots, two full frontal. When she got to that part of the album, there wouldn't be any mystery left to hide. She had only just started.

I offered to refill her coffee and she distractedly handed me her mug -- I confirmed her taking it double-double and she nodded yes, unable to tear her eyes from the album. As I prepared her coffee in the kitchen, I stroked myself a couple of times and hurried back to check on Beth's progress. I placed her fresh coffee in front of her and sat back down behind the typewriter, directly in her line of sight. She was just past halfway and the shots were now more risqué and revealing. There was no doubt that she was intrigued.

Shamelessly, I flaunted myself, my growing manhood threatening to make an appearance at any moment. I wasn't sure what came over me, but I pretended that I wasn't aware that I was about to expose myself. My imminent exposure had not escaped her attention as she had a tough time keeping her eyes averted while checking out the rest of the album. Our banter was light-hearted but a bit disjointed and awkward. I had let the robe's tie fall loose.

I knew that the loose tie would soon let go and then I would be letting it all hang out directly in front of her. It was totally inappropriate of course, but I was powerless to do the right thing and cinch my robe up properly. She was fidgeting in her seat as her eyes kept drifting to my robe's tie, but she didn't appear uncomfortable with the position I was putting her in.

She had reached the last two pages of the album and spent some time with them before closing it. She looked up at me with a glazed look, picked up her fresh coffee. I was now the focus of her attention. As she held her mug in both hands, sipping her coffee, we were both speechless. Her eyes were continually drifting to the tie on my robe. Willing it to let go I imagined. Her short skirt and fidgeting continued to offer tantalizing glimpses of her bare thighs, right in front of me. It was hard to imagine that it was anything but deliberate.

She commented on the typewriter set up, dissipating the awkward silence that was hanging in the air between us. I told her I was writing up an exam for my grade 10 class and that I anticipated that I would be working on it for the next several hours. I used the opportunity to butter her up by telling her that I appreciated the distraction of a beautiful woman to share a coffee with. She blushed at that, pleased by my blatant flattery.

Reminded of her need for cash, I asked if she could type. When she told me that she could, I perked up, brightening at the news. Preparing the exam would go a lot quicker if I could dictate to a typist. I broached the subject with her and we quickly settled on a rate - she asked for four dollars an hour - I offered her five. With that settled, she had brightened noticeably, the awkwardness between us gone now that we knew we were going to be spending the next few hours together.

She asked to use the phone to call her mother and let her know where she was. Her house was just down the street, an identical mirror-image of my abode. She would be anxious to know that she was safe. Beth's mother Joan had refused to let her husband Jon move in, so it was just the three of them -- mom, Beth and her nine month old son. She had left him with Joan tonight with plenty of breast milk to tide him over for the evening.

I knew who her mother Joan was. We had been neighbors for over a year, having met for the first time when I was looking for an apartment close to my new job. In fact, I had come very close to renting her own second floor flat before moving into this one. She had all but dry humped me while showing me the flat and had been forward and anxious in suggesting the additional benefits of having a motherly landlord. In the end, I didn't get the apartment, but we maintained cordial relations and she constantly flirted with me as I passed her house.

She was attractive and what might later have been called a MILF. I made a point of crossing the street and passing her house on my way to the corner, always anxious for one of her bear hugs. She would invite me up to her porch from the sidewalk, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace me enthusiastically. She was buxom, voluptuous and braless and wore flimsy, transparent tops in the warm weather.

Joan loved to make a spectacle of herself for me when we were out of sight of others, never modest with her exposed cleavage or "accidental" nip slip. Her bear hugs might better be called breast hugs. Inexplicably, her nipples always seemed to be erect, even in the warmest weather. She was the object of many of my masturbatory fantasies.

I gave Beth a hand as she stood up, an awkward moment as the loose tie on my robe was threatening to let go at any moment. If it had, as I had hoped, I would have let it go, confident that she would not be offended. She crossed the room and picked up the phone, her back to me, giving me the opportunity to adjust my robe. She dialed out and spoke briefly, gave her mom Joan my number and told her she would check in with her again in a couple of hours. She was shifting from foot to foot slowly and deliberately -- was she nervous or doing it for me? I was mesmerized, watching the profile of her cheeks flexing under the skirt as she did so. No doubt, she had been an athlete in the not too distant past.

As she hung up and turned back to face me, she noted that I had straightened out my robe. I couldn't tell if her smirk was one of relief or of disappointment. She wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead, a tacit acknowledgement of the excessive warmth of the room. I reminded her that I had turned off the noisy fan to allow us to talk and I briefly outlined the situation with the thermostat. Without comment, she unbuttoned and removed her denim jacket and it was my time to be amazed. I was immediately intrigued by her rack.

Wearing a wide V-neck button-down silk blouse that draped over her large and shapely breasts, it was totally inadequate for the freezing temperatures outside. Summer weight at best, I recognized it as one of her mother's sexiest tops. Coupled with the light denim jacket, skirt, stockings and heels she had been wearing I wondered -- what was she thinking? In weather like this? Her outfit was more appropriate for a date on a warm summer afternoon than for a cold fall evening, looking for work. Sexy as hell though.

Anything but modest, without a camisole to keep it translucent, the blouse was a revelation -- lliterally. Completely visible through the sheer material, her breasts were suspended by a demi-cup bra that was too small, her erect nipples spilling over the scalloped edges. She made no attempt to hide them from me and it was apparent that her choice of bra and top was clearly intended to flaunt her magnificent assets.

Which got me thinking. If she was going door-to-door looking for work, she was certainly not dressed for it. From the moment she showed up at my doorstep, I had questioned her lightweight attire in weather like this. Wearing her mother's sexy and incredibly revealing blouse along with her short skirt, stockings and heels suggested a different agenda.

She noticed the focus of my attention, which appeared to be her intent. She certainly wasn't offended. As I finished fussing with the tie on my robe, she went back to the couch and sat back down, flashes of her bare thighs much more apparent this time around. It wasn't blatant, but her skirt was riding higher, the panels of her stockings clearly visible. Her all but naked breasts floating above her lap, thrust forward by pulling her shoulders back, her nipples pointing the way. She continued drinking her coffee.

Without saying so out loud, I imagined that Joan (Beth's mother) had set this all up. She knew that I was fond of her and I suspected that she had a bit of a crush on me. She knew me well enough that Beth would be in safe hands, that I was a gentleman even if I was a bit of a lecher. Joan had coached her. She had tutored her in the ways of the flirt -- tease without acknowledgement, don't get caught. Bare skin exposure should be "accidental", due to carelessness rather than intent. Intrigue rather than flagrant exhibitionism.

Her nervous energy bubbled out in a continuous stream of conversation. To my relief, she seemed completely at ease with my inappropriateness earlier and her own immodesty. She began to prattle on with personal and intimate details about her own circumstances. Details that I had no real business knowing but found fascinating nonetheless. We hadn't been aware of each other an hour ago and yet she was now sharing detailed secrets.

She was 24 and her husband 19. They had married shortly after she got pregnant, not even sure if he was the father. They had been struggling to make ends meet as he was unable to land a full-time job and she had no formal education to fall back on. Her breasts had gained some heft as her pregnancy progressed, her hormones raging. She had tried a modeling gig before her pregnancy had become too apparent, but she had quit after the photographer had tried to coax her into compromising and risqué poses and outfits that she wasn't comfortable with.

The money had been good and she was now harboring some regrets. It had been a lingerie shoot and the successive outfits had been more and more revealing until the last one had consisted of nothing more than a tiny thong and a platform bra that left her erect nipples exposed. She had been enjoying herself, the camera allowing her wanton exhibitionism to blossom, but the photographer had gotten too familiar and had tweaked her nipples for effect. She would have been fine with that too, but he wanted more. The evident bulge in his pants had been too much and she had ended the shoot right then and there.

With no money coming in, they had had to move shortly after the birth of their son to avoid eviction. Her husband was struggling to find work. She was nursing their son, which helped keep their expenses down, but they were running on fumes. Her mother had just taken them in, but refused to allow Jon to stay with them until they could afford to rent the flat upstairs. They needed cash to keep the wolves at bay. This was why she was soliciting for work door-to-door.

She went on that she had used a breast pump to extract some milk into nursing bottles for her mother to feed their baby and she had ventured out into the cold night, looking for a source of revenue. She shared with me that before they got the breast pump, she had required her husband's help in milking her breasts to fill the nursing bottles sufficiently. She let me know that she was thankful that her breasts were up to the task and were having no difficulty producing enough milk -- for both her son and her husband!

She noted the look of enquiry that her last comment had produced and she elaborated further. She told me that her breasts had grown two full cup sizes with her pregnancy (from a C to a DD) and that her husband was enamored with them. Their son had a hearty appetite and she loved having her nipples suckled. When her son's appetite was satiated, she had turned to Jon to help keep her mammary glands from painful engorgement. With her coaching and encouragement, he had become very good at it.

Her only complaint was that his attention on her breasts left her craving for more. Her husband's tongue and lips did a good job with her nipples (don't get her wrong), but she craved to have his cock between her thighs, complimenting the excitement generated by his suckling. Jon was afraid of another pregnancy and was reluctant to fuck her properly. I was listening intently and I was flabbergasted that she was choosing to share this with me. I had never met anyone who was so open and forward with such intimate details.

Such talk was having it's effect and I was acutely aware that my light robe would not be able to disguise my burgeoning hardon if I wasn't careful. I wasn't careful. With no actual acknowledgement of the fact, my glans was waving at her from my parted robe. Neither of us acknowledged nor were uncomfortable with that.

She was staring and realized that it was her sharing these details with me that was turning me on. Encouraged, further elaboration on her part had her telling me that her nipples were now perpetually erect and hyper sensitive. With a concentrated effort, Jon could bring her to orgasm in lieu of actual intercourse. What was she telling me?