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The Way She Wants It - 6/22/2016 9:46:48 PM   

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I open my eyes, stirring back from a sleep I hadn’t realized I had entered into. But nothing had changed in my slumber. Nothing at all. And in the matter of a few seconds, I remember where I am and why I am there. I am still sprawled across the sectional couch in her den, her right thigh serving as my pillow and the nipple of her right breast still in my mouth.

I breathe in deeply, unintentionally alerting her to my awakened return. And before I even get a chance to shift my body at all, she slides a small pillow under my lower back. She knows my lumbar will stiffen when I stay in one position too long. This is one of many facts about me she has collected and committed to memory.

She never forgets anything. Ever.

This is why I am captivated and mesmerized by her. She is a powerful, influential and strong-willed woman who consciously decided to not become a femi-nazi in life. And this decision has made her even more dominant.

“Shhhhhhhh,” she whispers with ruby lips, calmly easing me back into the conscious world.

Her voice alone does just that. Indeed, I had fallen asleep. But as she said she would be, she was right there when I awoke.

I had no idea what time it was, only that it was late at night. But as she strokes her fingernails through my hair, I think back on everything that had happened earlier that evening that led to this very moment in time.


I got home from work about 5pm and immediately received a text message from her with simple instructions.

“Drop what you’re doing now. Get in your car and drive to me,” her text message read.

And I did just that, breaking speed limits on the ten-mile journey to her house. I walked in and found her in the kitchen, making the final preparations of a meal. The table was set and we dined on salmon, asparagus, brown rice and walnut salad with grapes and spinach. It was a meal with food combinations that not only encouraged the production of her breast milk but also increased the levels of my testosterone. It was her ever-ready tease of my senses and my soul … the way she wanted it.

After dinner, she stripped me naked and sent me off to the shower. And I didn’t fight her advances, though I knew the night of teasing could be excruciating. When I was done in the shower, I joined her in the den - a cozy room in the back of the first floor of her house. I was made to lay across her thighs, naked and submissive as she always made me when she invited me over. She had turned on the movie Pretty Woman and was still sipping from a glass of Strawberry White Zinfandel she had brought with her from dinner.


And now looking up at her, I am taking in the messages that only silence can clearly articulate.

“You fell asleep, didn’t you?” she asks with a soft voice as I nod slowly. “I told you that you would.”

She knows me so well. I always fall asleep when she breastfeeds me. And tonight, I had nursed on her right nipple until I fell asleep. So she shifts me across her lap a bit more, cradling my torso and repositioning me so that my neck leans back on the inside of her left elbow. With the fingernails of her left hand in my hair, lightly scratching my scalp, she gazes down at me with a precursor to satisfaction.

“I’ll take you to bed soon. But not yet,” she whispers with a relaxing tone, her maternal need to not stir me any further than what she desires.

It’s the way she wants it.

Raising her left arm slightly, she pushes the back of my head up and guides my mouth onto her left nipple. I am so relaxed and so compliant that I part my lips and happily draw as much of her areola into my mouth as I can. Satisfaction is the expression on her face as she feels the pull, my tongue pressing her nipple up onto the roof of my mouth and my lips tightening. Some form of completion, that of purpose and of passion, is being fulfilled for her. And she grows more beautiful because of it.

It is an intoxication of her senses and she does nothing to hide how it makes her feel to be breastfed from. It is an intoxication of my mind to be there and to know that she will lactate one day. It is the only moment when I am in control.

She wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly and rocking me back and forth. Her breathing is deep but steady. My hands reach up and take hold of her left breast, my thumbs pressing down and my fingers push upward. Instinct kicks in and I massage the tissues, trying to get the lobes to express and fill the duct works with her milk.

She keeps me pressed against her, practically smashing me into her and using my face to flatten her C-cup as much as possible. I keep my eyes on her, watching her drift into a state of euphoria I can only imagine.

I may be as naked as the day I was born. But in her arms and in her care, I am enveloped in something far more covering than clothing … a place where I belong, a satiating reason to be there and the knowledge that I was put there by her.

She may still be dressed to the nines, as beautiful and as breath-taking as always. But she is naked to me … because I can see into her soul through a pair of electric blue irises that dazzle me with the bridled yearning she possesses.

When she is done with my nursing, she pulls my head back and inserts her right thumb into my mouth for me to continue nursing on. This is always what she does to me. And I always suck on her thumb until she tells me to stop or until my jaw grows too weak to continue. I nestle against her frame, feeling an immense heat rising up off her chest and sternum. She is all aglow, her maternal needs having been met.

She reaches for her glass of wine and I see the bottle of Strawberry White Zinfandel sitting on the table by the end of the sectional couch right next to her. She had brought the wine bottle with her as well. She has a diaper sitting by that bottle, her ever-ready tease. Maybe some evening she’ll put me in it, to satisfy her maternal urge in a manner unlike before.

But for tonight, I’ll just be naked … the way she wants it.
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