I feel the grimace on my face as I walk to his bed and my breasts swing, knocking painfully into each other. A seemingly ludicrous sentence unless you're full to bursting with milk and the pressure valve of your nipples just won't release.
My son takes one look at me and closes his laptop, placing it beside him on the nightstand. Glasses atop that. He straightens his legs and slides down on the bed.
Lifts the quilt for me.
I slide in beside him, cradling my tender breasts through my tee shirt, gently settling them against my arm as I lay down. Even so, I groan as they protest the change in position. I lay the side of my head against the cool pillow and close my eyes, my brow furrowing.
I feel my sweet boy lift my shirt. He begins to drag his warm, wet tongue across my hard, stinging nipples. The sensation is so soothing I moan. He massages my breasts, which at first makes me gasp in pain. The simultaneous sharp ache and soothing caress sets my hips gently in motion. I feel myself getting wet.
"Mmm.." My son nuzzles my hot breasts. Kisses the skin between them. "Relax, Mum," he whispers gently. "Give me your milk."
My back arches and I guide his eager lips back to my nipple as I feel that sharp, almost cold pain in my nipples and spreading, tingling warmth in my breasts they call "let down."
"Sweet boy," I moan as his mouth closes on my areola. My hand goes to the back of his head, luxuriating in the feel of the shaved hair there.
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