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Among my many life goals (along with deep throating a well-endowed man, arranging the elusive MMF, practicing in the area of my highest degree and putting food on the table) is the goal of finding every last little one of my lover’s sexual triggers.
I’ve found many of his triggers already, even in so short a time as we’ve been partners. In just over three months, I’ve discovered his irrational enthusiasm for playing with my butt, seeing me drool and spanking my upturned ass; I’ve also unearthed The Kink Which Shall Not Speak Its Name.
It’s like finding tiny hidden gifts. I delight in teasing the knowledge of these small perversions out of him. It’s a pleasure and an honor.
Recently, I’ve found a something new that sets him off. The man possesses a keen fascination with drinking milk. Drinking breast milk. From me.
Oh don’t worry; I’m not currently lactating, although I most sincerely wish that I could be. It might happen eventually. You never know what the human body is capable of doing, especially when the reward is pleasure.
Right now the fantasy by itself is plenty hot. He lies between my legs, very gently moving in me. I quietly suggest to him images of my breasts hard and full of milk, milk that beads up on my nipples or fountains out at a pinch.
So vividly do I remember how my breasts looked and felt when they were full of milk. They tingled with a flow I could feel bubbling up from deep inside my chest. Blue veins traced across the hard hot flesh. They sat up like rocks, extravagantly leaking rich sweet milk night and day.
Years after nursing has passed, my breasts are colder, softer and empty. Still my lover pinches and kneads them, lost in his imagination. Sometimes he leaves finger-shaped bruises that last for days on my skin, much to my delight.
I tell him to suck me, to take my nipple deep into his mouth and to pull the milk from my body. He sucks, he pulls, he pinches—and as he does, his movements in me change.
I strive not to let my hair-trigger clit go off then. I want to keep talking to him, to keep feeling his new movements, to keep hearing the sounds that come from somewhere deep in his chest as he imagines drinking from me.
His movements are somehow less deliberate then. So much of the time he concentrates on giving me pleasure—not that I’m complaining. But when he forgets about what I need and only does what he wants, I love that so much.
I love the moments when he’s completely lost, when he barely even remembers the person he’s with, when we turn into bodies and not people. If I can keep my wits about me (and often I cannot, as seeing him like that makes me lose my head too), I entreat him to taste how sweet my milk is as it puddles on his tongue. I beg him to squeeze the hard flesh until milk flows down his throat.
“Suck me Daddy,” I urge, trying not to come from the uncontrolled movements of his body over mine.
He comes differently too, a low shuddering groan that surges up from his toes as he buries his face in my breasts. It feels as if he’s try to crawl inside my body through my cunt.
I love that. I love feeling him as he comes that hard in me. I squeeze hard with muscles that get exercised every day; I want every drop in me.
And most of all, I want to know what trigger I’ll get to find next.
~Storm
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