Mammary Lane

You reached down, cupping underneath your breast and moving it so that the nipple rested on my tongue. Feeding it to me.

The room was filled with Sunday morning sun as I stepped back into it, after my shower. You were sat on the bed, still wrapped in your own robe. You were watching TV — a program about babies and their mothers. I could tell your mind was wandering back in time, remembering all those hours you’d spent nurturing your own. The expression on your face was a mixture of love, contentment, mixed with a hint of longing.

I crawled onto the bed next to you. You smiled, your grey-green eyes staring deep into my browns. Without a word spoken, I took the pillow from my side of the bed and placed it gently on your lap. Laying on my side, I rested my head on the pillow, nuzzling my nose into your robe. I gazed up at you, and you smiled down, stroking my hair with lazy fingers. Our looks to each other were enough, soothing and the faint sounds from the TV provided enough background noise to cut through the silence.

You slowly opened your robe on one side, letting your breast slip free. Hovering so close to my face, I ran the tip of my nose against it, feeling the contours as I passed over smooth flesh, noticing the change in texture as I passed over rippled areola and finally slowing as I brushed against the nipple. You inhaled deeply, further combing your fingers into my hair, pressing at the back of my scalp to encourage me closer. I lifted my head and repositioned gently — my face pressed directly against your breast now. I looked up at you again, opening my mouth, my flattened tongue resting on my bottom lip. You reached down, cupping underneath your breast and moving it so that the nipple rested on my tongue. Feeding it to me.

With the slightest touch, I licked. My tongue made a long, slow circuit around the areola, glazing it wet and then flicking the end of your nipple with enough force to send a tiny shockwave deep into the soft flesh of your breast. Again. Then again. In front of my eyes your nipple tightened and pushed outwards, firming against my tongue. I stopped. You let out a deep contented sigh.

Opening my mouth I pushed my face forwards, squashing gently against your breast, taking your erect nipple deeper into my mouth, pushing it along my tongue. My lips were tighter now — an uneven “O” shape.

I started to suck. It was slow and steady, soft and deeply sensual.

The noises from your mouth were not those we were accustomed to. No lust, no breathless passion, no filthy whispers. These sounds were coos, purrs — sounds of contentment and nurturing. Your fingers in my hair stroked with comfort and love.

I started to slide my tongue up and down along the length of your nipple. Each time the tongue reached it’s deepest point, it would press against the flesh and draw it back in a heavy suck. I’d found the perfect rhythm. It’s hard to describe how deeply loving it felt to be suckling you — yet at the same time I knew that something special was being intimately woven into the deep sexual connection between us.

As you watched me, your mood slowly phased from calm, loving nurture into hot-blooded enjoyment… and passion. Your breaths grew deeper, your fingers pressed a little tighter against my scalp. The firm tugs against your nipple were now causing long, drawn-out shockwaves of sensation all the way from your breast, down your spine and into your core — igniting your pussy and stimulating its juices. It was as if each suck on your nipple was causing a spark — a spark that traveled down your body and exploded as it reached the swelling nub of your clit. I could tell. The way your body started to move, the way your hips rotated underneath the cushion — it was like pleasuring you by remote.

I found that by alternating the speed and intensity of my sucks against your nipple, I could achieve a similar effect to when I control your vibe. I raced you up steep hills of sensation, leaving you teetering at peaks, pausing the torrent of rapid sucks, before diving deep into a valley of slow, calming sucks. Each peak was longer than the last — an ever-increasing staircase of pleasure, edging you in a way I never imagined was possible.

The lower half of your robe was crammed between your thighs, pressed together tightly, and from your hip movements I could tell that the soft fabric was being used as friction to rub your naked pussy against beneath the cushion. Unbeknownst to me, your pussy was soaked, along with a sizeable circle of bedding beneath you. Your clit was throbbing and your core was clenching your walls in time with my rhythmic sucks.

Unseen to me, you reached to the nightstand and lifted a small glass of something I’d brought with your breakfast. Pressing the rim to the top of your breast you poured — slowly and carefully. The now-lukewarm, white liquid tumbled down your breast, running naturally in a trickle to your nipple and into my mouth as I sucked. I moaned deeply, drinking, my mind lost in the impromptu role-play. You poured oh-so slowly, pausing and resuming, over and over, drizzling until the glass was empty. The sensation of the running liquid was electric, tightening your nipple even more.

It was at the top of the highest peak yet when I felt your fingers tighten in my hair, twisting in sweet agony and a deep scream of delight echoed out of your throat. I felt your body jerk and your legs shake….. and then stop. Your breath was laboured, your body was still. I looked up to find you looking down at me with astonishment.

I smiled, warmly. Your eyes flicked to the TV, then back down again, smiling weakly — deep contentment and love in your eyes. I propped myself up and kissed you softly, still licking the milk from my lips.

It was an act that became a weekly ritual for us. Every lazy Sunday morning. Binding us together in another deeply sexual way, yet more importantly integrating that deeply sacred memory of nurturing so that it lived on, in us.