Adult Nursing Relationship

I love watching Mom sleep. I still wake early, a habit picked up in basic training. She's a sound sleeper and a bit of a mouth breather. There's something about that little thread of drool that I find, well, endearing is a good word.

For, by my actual count, the bazillionth time, it occurred to me that I could take her. All I had to do was part her knees with my hands, something I had done before, and then get my knees between them and take what I wanted so badly. I was hard, just thinking about it.

But I wouldn't do that. That would just be fucking. And society can get fucked as far as I'm concerned. I love her too much to take her like that. When she finally says "yes," then at least one of us will be a virgin on our marriage bed. Well, at least one of us will have been a virgin when we finally consummate our love.

So I just watched her sleep for a while. I loved the way her breathing moved her breasts just a little. And like Pavlov's dog, that tiny movement was enough to make me want to nurse. I wasn't hungry, this would just be comfort.

I snuggled against her, using my pillow to get my head to the right height, and took her nipple into my mouth. I didn't latch on and suckle, I wasn't hungry. I closed my lips, applied just enough suction to join us, and then drifted back off to sleep, the taste of her milk on my tongue comforting.

I woke again when I felt her fingers break the connection between us and opened my eyes as she rolled over, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and started for the bathroom.

I love watching her walk away from me. Her shoulders are broad, she told me she was a pretty good gymnast when she was a girl, I could see where her waist had once been, just a hint, as she had thickened over time. Her hips spread, and her ass was a perfect bubble butt, her

gluteal cleft

, her asscrack, dividing two perfect hemispheres and her

gluteal sulcus

, that line where her ass met the tops of her thick thighs formed two perfect, horizontal parentheses. Her legs were thick at the top, with no thigh gap for Mom, tapering to very good calves. Shallow dimpling, incipient cellulite, covered most of her from the waist down and I found the look sexy as always.

As I did most mornings, I followed her.

She is no longer surprised or shocked when I kiss her as she does that morning business. This is an intimacy I find to be very special. It shows a trust level, I think, that few get to experience. So I kissed her, and she kissed me back, as she peed.

There's something about that soft hissing sound of a woman peeing that gets to me. It's not a scat fetish or anything like that. It's more of a trust thing. For her to kiss me back, while making that private sound, shows true trust.

When she finished peeing and didn't move, I knew she wasn't done. So I began stroking her hair, waiting her out.

"God," she said, smiling up at me, "You are SUCH a pervert."

"Say 'yes,'" I said, bending to kiss her.

"Someday," she said, taking my erection in her hand and starting to masturbate me.

She did it slowly, squeezing and pulling until she had me on the edge. Her face darkened a little and she grunted softly. My ejaculation and the loud splash of her morning bowel movement were nearly simultaneous. I came on her breasts as she grunted, a second splash sounded, and she let out a loud, sonorous fart.

She giggled.

"Shower?" she asked but I shook my head and pulled off a couple of feet from the toilet paper roll and began wiping her.

Sometimes we shower after she does her morning business, but sometimes I want to wipe her. As I said, it's not a scat fetish or something. It's about intimacy and there's not much more intimate than what I was doing.

And she enjoyed it too. Certainly, she enjoyed it on the physical level. That was obvious in the way she leaned to help me gain the access I needed to clean her properly, and the soft hum she made as I carefully cleaned around her anus and checked the toilet paper to be certain I was done. But I think on the emotional level too, and she said, "I love you," as I was finishing.

She stood and then moved behind me, aiming me, as I peed in turn. She shook me expertly and then joined me as we stood, side-by-side at the lavatory and washed our hands.

"Come on, Baby," she said, taking my hand and leading me back into the bedroom, "breakfast."

She was engorged in the morning, as she always is, and I knew she would be aching with the need to nurse.

She laid back and I settled into the crook of her arm to feed for the first time today. As I suckled my hand caressed the slight roundness of her belly, that little pot belly she called my gift to her, and then farther down, playing in her coarse public hair and then masturbating her slowly. When she came with a soft grunt I just held her, and my hand covered her, wet and slick now with her pleasure.

I released her nipple and leaned back enough to look at her.

Her left breast, where I had been suckling, was flat and soft. Her right was full and engorged, almost hard when I touched it.

"Marry me," I said.

"Honey, I can't," she said.

"Okay," I said, rolling out of bed.

"DAVEY!" she called as I was leaving the room.

"Say yes," I called over my shoulder.

She said nothing more as I moved into the bathroom and started water running in the shower to get hot.

I knew she would be setting up her pump. On some level, I felt bad. This was a cruelty. But mostly I felt like it was just a way to put pressure on her to get her to say "yes."

It's an old house, and it takes a while for the water to run hot, so I brushed my teeth while I waited.

I showered, ran a brush through my hair, rinsed my mouth with Listerine, and padded back into the bedroom.

Mom was reclined on three pillows, the pump making that soporific "whoosh/click" sound I knew well, a satisfied smile on her face.

"You're so mean," she said, but there was a smile on her face.

"Say yes," I said, bending to kiss her.

She smiled, morning titdrunk, and said, "Someday."

I kissed her again and started dressing.

"I've got that damn nine o'clock Econ class," I said, "So gotta get moving."

She watched me, that soft smile staying on her face.

"I'm so proud of you," she said.

I laughed at that and said, "Hell, you always said I was smart. Now I'm kind of motivated."

I finished dressing, kissed her once more, and headed to class.

Mom was the Chief Financial Officer of a local bank and worked better-than-banker's hours. I enjoyed my days off when I could watch her get dressed in her formal business attire. She was a high-functioning alcoholic and in her dark suit, hair done, face made up, with jewelry and nylons (she never wore pantyhose), no one would guess she was slamming back a quart of vodka every three days.

I was a Sophomore in college at the time, and for the first time in my life, I was being a serious student. I was fascinated with economics, much to my surprise. I found the whole notion of Production Possibility Curves and Supply and Demand and Elasticity of Demand and all of the rest of the arcane language of the Dismal Science almost as interesting as the fantasy novels I devoured voraciously. Besides that, I knew Mom's schedule so I was in no hurry to get home. I grabbed lunch at the Student Union, not nearly as satisfying as mom's tit but good body fuel, and spent the afternoon in the library working on a paper for a history class,

Foreign Relations in the Cold War

if it matters. I killed time, in other words, being a good student.

I made it a point to get home before Mom, as I always did, and greeted her at the door with a smile and nothing else on, and a screwdriver in my hand. She smiled, kissed me, said a soft, "Bless you," and took a big swallow from the drink.

I could see from the tightness around her eyes that she was tense.

"Long day?" I asked.

She laughed softly, that throaty laugh of hers, and said, "It always amazes me how stupid you can be, especially if you have a dick, and still reach a high position in a bank."

"Tell me," I said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.

So she told me of her day, a process we had worked out over the years, as I undressed her. I heard, for the zillionth time, about how saving a bank a half million dollars didn't even earn her a thank you.

As she talked I had her first sit on the chair in front of her makeup desk and got her shoes off, taking my time to massage her feet before moving my hands up to the suspenders of her open-bottom girdle, part of what she called her "banker uniform," and released and rolled the nylons down and took them off of her. While she sat I removed her necklace and earrings, and then went into the bathroom and got a washcloth and scrubbed her face. I liked doing that. She was ridiculously cute the way her face scrunched up like a little girl's.

I had her stand then, slipped the suit jacket off, laid it on the bed, and then slowly unbuttoned her blouse, making it a sensual experience for both of us, as I kissed the skin I revealed. By the time I got the blouse off it was time to refill her glass so I tossed the blouse into the clothes hamper and left her sitting there in her bra, skirt, and girdle when I went into the kitchen to make a fresh screwdriver.

I fixed her drink, orange juice in a water glass with a double shot of the

Grey Goose

she preferred, and went back into the bedroom. She was waiting right where I left her.

I had her stand then, while I did the button and zipper of her skirt. I dropped it but then picked it up and hung it carefully, hanging the suit jacket over it and carefully putting it back into the closet.

I unhooked the four hooks of her bra and enjoyed the little shudder of her body as I brushed fingertips down her arms when I worked the straps off of her arms.

She looked terrific. She was engorged and in that condition, her big breasts, her bras, as I well knew, were 40DD, would pass the pencil test.

Oh, you don't know the pencil test? It's almost a joke but with the kernel of reality that makes a good joke good. The pencil test simply states that if a woman lifts her breast and puts a pencil under it, and it doesn't fall, she needs a bra. When she's not engorged, Mom has no chance of passing the pencil test. Hell, I'm not sure she could pass a beercan test. Her ass, her

gluteal sulcus

, that line where ass meets the top of thighs, couldn't pass a pencil test either.

She's a big woman with big parts.

But engorged, those big boobs stuck straight out.

"I need to pump or have you nurse," she said but I shook my head.

"I think dinner and a drink or seven first," I said.

She sort of groaned, but she was smiling too.

I rummaged through her underwear drawer until I found what I was looking for.

"Oh lord," she said but held out her arms.

I worked the non-supporting bra, basically a soft titsack, up her arms and hooked its front closures. Then I went into the bathroom for a couple of her nursing pads and slipped them into the little pouches at her nipples. We had been out once when a baby started crying and Mom started leaking suddenly. I thought that ranked up there among the five sexiest things I've ever seen but she was mortified and made me take her home so now, when we went out and she was in this condition, I used the pads.

I helped her into the almost sheer white blouse I liked on her. It was tight enough to show her off and I liked the way the red bra showed clearly through it.

I wrapped her black, wraparound skirt at her waist, tugging to get the oversized button through the buttonhole, and stepped back to look. The skirt ended right at her knees and a hem of fringe added a couple of inches and almost constant movement when each breath made it ripple in interesting ways.

I took her hand and guided her to sit at her little makeup desk and then did her hair and face. I swept the mass of her hair up from the left side, exposing her ear, and pinned it, leaving a pile on top of her head. I loved that look for her, sort of combination of Mom-Next-Door and hooker. I did her face then, the makeup heavier, and more dramatic than she ever did it by herself. Copper eyeshadow, applied a little too heavily, and false eyelashes gave her more of the hooker look I was trying for, and sharp points at the corners of her eyes were a nice touch, I thought. The Dior Rouge 999 scarlet lipstick finished her look and I carefully outlined her lips, making sure the line of the lipstick was sharp, before offering her a Kleenex and watching as she carefully blotted, leaving a perfect, and outrageously sexy, lip print.

"What is it that you like so much about making me look like a whore?" she asked.

"I love it when I'm asked how much," I answered, smiling.

She smiled, her best "come on" smile, and said, "And what do you tell them?"

"Five thousand a night, and worth it. Prime costs," I said.

Her eyebrows went up.

"Well, at least I'm not a streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night," she said.

I stepped closer and lightly patted her hair, being careful to not mess up my work, and looked her in the eye.

"The question, My Love," I said, grinning my best boyish grin, "is what will you do the first time the client says 'okay.'"

Her eyes got big at that, but then she smiled. "I'd make damn sure to give him his money's worth of course."

I smiled.

"Marry me," I said. "I wouldn't pimp out my wife."

"But you'll rent out your mother?" she asked, and her look seemed genuinely curious.

"Mom," I said, turning serious, "I've seen the parade of men through your bed all of my life. Nothing you have will wear out and, well, honestly, I think you'd enjoy it."

She smiled, stood, kissed me a light peck, protecting her lipstick, and said, "Okay, My Love," mirroring what I said earlier, "Let's see if we can find a rich customer."

We had dinner at a small restaurant downtown, a place that specializes in Reuben sandwiches that leave you full and guarantee flatulence later. Then it was to a downtown pub we knew where they ran a karaoke contest and we were semi-regulars.

My mother has a whisky contralto and always chooses

Cry Me A River

and puts enough raw sex into an overtly sexy song that she makes Julie London's version seem positively tame. My contribution was my version of

All Along the Watchtower

with my voice turning rough and breaking on that wonderful line, "...and a wildcat began to GROWLLLLLLLLLLLLLL."

Mom took second behind a guy who did a version of

When I was Seventeen

that made you look around for Frank Sinatra himself. I got an honorable mention.

As I was singing I saw a man, the guy looked like he had just stepped off of the set of some gangster movie with his sharkskin suit and slicked-back hair, bending over, doing the one-hand-on-the-table-and-one-hand-on-the-back-of-Mom's-chair thing, his mouth so close to her ear that she had to feel little puffs when he spoke. I watched as they exchanged words and then as he turned on his heel and stalked off. If we're being honest here, I breathed a little sigh of relief. I thought I could take him, I hadn't accumulated that whole rainbow of colored belts for nothing, but he also looked like the kind of guy who might send a leg breaker to even the score.

I could smell her as I walked back to the table.

"Okay, Sluterella," I said, "We're not leaving until we see if you won, so cross your legs. You smell like you're in heat."

She giggled and touched my hand.

"Ask me again," she said.

"Why?" I asked, the sudden rush in my belly turning my bowels hot and watery.

"Because I'll say 'yes,'" she said.

"Why?" I asked again and then added, "Why now?"

She touched my hand with hers, looking so damn hot right then I damn near came in my pants.

"Because I don't want to be a whore," she said, "and I would have said 'yes' if that guy hadn't balked at the price."

On some level, I was too afraid to ask the question. I covered by saying, "Finish your drink, and let's hear how we did."

Her eyes were huge, white showing around the irises, as she asked, "David?"

"Finish your drink," I repeated.

Okay, I won't deny it. I liked, very much, the way her eyes welled and then overflowed, the tears leaving dark streaks down her cheeks.

We finished our drinks, listened to a truly terrible rendition of

White Rabbit

by a woman who couldn't get within an octave of hitting the high notes, and then listened as the finishing order was announced.

As the bartender worked his way past number ten, the guy with the slicked-back hair was back. He looked at her face and then scowled at me.

"Is everything okay here, Honey?" he asked and it flashed through my mind that he should be singing if his singing voice was even close to the rich baritone of his speaking voice.

"Yes, Brad," Mom said, "We're fine here."

"Are you sure?" he said, and his voice made it clear that he was perfectly willing to kick my ass if things weren't okay.

"Yes, Dear," Mom said, touching his hand with hers, "Thank you. But we're fine."

He stared for another several seconds and then turned on his heel and walked away. I watched, interested, as he approached a blowsy redhead at the bar. I guessed he decided Mom really wasn't available.

With the results of the contest read, I called an Uber and we headed home.

The ride home was in silence, an awkward silence at that. We didn't need to talk and often we spent time in what they call "companionable silence." But this was the silence of anger and hurt.

When we cleared the front door I turned, took both of her hands in mine, dropped to one knee in that pose you've seen in old movies, and repeated the question I had asked a hundred times before.

"Marilouise Morgan," I said, "You own my heart. You own my soul. I am yours. Will you marry me?"

Her breakdown was complete. She was suddenly bawling. This was far beyond crying or sobbing, she was wailing, great whoops of air in and out. Her tears flowed freely and snot ran from her nose in rivers, soaking the front of her blouse. Her face was streaked, black lines running down her cheeks and, I thought, probably ruining the white blouse where it dripped.

I waited, saying nothing, holding her hand.

Finally, she drew a deep breath, looked down at me, and said, "Yes."

And it was like a dam broke.

"Yes," she said again, slowly sinking to her knees, bringing us eye-to-eye, "Yes, yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyesyesyes."

She wrapped me in a hug and that kiss, that slick, snotty, kiss, was the kiss against which all kisses in the history of the universe pale. It was the perfect kiss. It was the purest kiss. It was the kiss that sealed our love and our union.

I have no idea how long that kiss lasted. She wouldn't release me and I didn't exactly fight for my freedom.

When she finally broke the kiss and pushed me away she looked terrible. Her face was a mess, her nose was running, and when she opened her mouth strings of thick, mucus-laden saliva connected her upper and lower lips. And I thought she was beautiful.

"Come on," she said, standing, "I said 'yes.'"

She took my hand and helped me stand and then, without a word, led me into the bedroom.

I was surprised when her fingers trembled too badly to work the buttons on my shirt. So I caught her hands, kissed her fingers, and said, "Let me take care of it."

She smiled at me, her cheeks still wet with fresh tears but her nose no longer running.

I unbuttoned her blouse, got the sleeve buttons undone, and slipped the blouse down her arms, enjoying the way the goosebumps rose where I touched. I kissed her again, kissed the skin of her throat and her collarbone, and reached around to unhook her bra.

When I lifted her bra free I was fascinated. So was so engorged that her breasts were hard to the touch and for the first time ever, she would pass the pencil test the way they stuck straight out.