30 Days or Bust: Day 03byl8bloom©
All characters in this story are age 18 or older.
Sunday never was my favorite. As a child, I hated having religion crammed down my throat, and got into trouble for asking too many questions. And Sunday in adulthood meant looking down the barrel of the workweek. No matter which way you turned, Monday was coming at you. Natural law dictated laundry and grocery shopping, lest one go through the week threadbare and hungry.
Regardless, I wasn't ready to face Mark yet, so I went someplace he would never find me: church. I picked a generic Christian type and sat in the back. After a few songs and murmurs, the pastor started in, and that was my signal to go to Planet Lisa.
While the man droned on, I turned inward to my own thoughts. I couldn't find any sin in what I had done sexually. No spouse had first claim to my allegiance, body or soul. I crossed infidelity off the list.
Next I thought of my methodology. Step by step I walked through the process. It's commonly known that, for years, scientists have been experimenting on themselves. This way if something goes wrong, nobody gets hurt. Plus you don't have to mess with the IRB, and some would call it arrogance, but I've always thought life was too short for excess paperwork. No – I couldn't see anything wrong with being my own subject in this particular study.
Following this line of thought, I considered my accomplice. Was it possible Mark could be harmed in all this? Socially, maybe; but it was he who had recently reminded me of the role of professionalism.
That was it, then. I hadn't maintained my objectivity. Without thinking, I snapped my fingers and softly exclaimed, "Ha!"
The preacher looked at me as if to say, "Do you have something to share with the class?" The congregants looked curious, too.
I pulled a grimace and slunk in my seat. Sorry, people, I thought. There didn't seem to be a graceful exit handy, so I just laid low until the talking was done, then zipped toward the door. Luckily, no one gave me more than an odd look as I clattered down the stone steps.
Mentally I pictured the old man intercepting me and asking what I was thinking about, to which I would blithely reply, "Human lactation experiments." That ought to get him.
So it was with a little smile on my face that I let myself in my front door. Just as I was reaching to hang my coat, I glanced out the window. A man was seated on my deck, reading the newspaper. After a moment of confusion, I realized it was Mark.
"Hey," I threw open the window, "Have you been here all day?"
Smiling, he folded the paper and stood. "Only half," was his bright reply. "How about you?"
I held open the screen door. "Went to church."
His eyebrows went up. "What was the topic?"
"No idea," I shrugged, and sailed toward the kitchen. "I'm starved, you want lunch?"
"Sure. Hey, can I use your bathroom?"
"First door on the left." I pointed.
Feeling a touch more confident, I put together chicken salad sandwiches and popped a couple of beers. In the background there was a flush, the sound of running water, and rattle of the linen closet door. Lunch was on the table by the time he came back.
To my surprise he held out my chair. "Thanks for fixing lunch."
"You're welcome. Dig in."
We did, and for a few minutes there was silence as two hungry people met their needs. I washed down a bite of sandwich with a swig of beer.
"So," he echoed.
"How did you wind up working for Wish?"
"My talent got noticed," he said drily. "How did you wind up hiring Wish?"
This seemed obvious, but maybe what he meant was, how did I hear about the company.
"There was this brochure in the ladies' room..."
"No, no. You know 302 West, the restaurant?"
He affirmed, perhaps remembering taking clients there. It was a nice place. I raced past this thought and continued.
"The department head was retiring, and that's where we took her out to dinner."
My companion gave this some thought. "I hope you don't mind my asking, I was just curious. We don't exactly advertise in the yellow pages."
"I don't mind. Besides," I colored slightly, "if I didn't think you were discreet, I never would have worked up the nerve to call."
"So it took you a while," he mused.
"Do most people sort of jump right in?"
Mark shook his head. "No, not that I know of. First off, you know it's going to cost a ton, to get exactly what you wish for. Second, a lot of people hold back, thinking about how it might affect their relationships at home or at work." He looked at me somewhat keenly here, as if wanting to know more.
What the hell? I took a deep breath and decided to spill the beans.
"It's like this. I can't have children, you know that, right."
"Uh-huh." Keeping his eyes on mine, he took a sip of beer.
"It's very important to me ... to know, to ...find out ... if I can participate in the cycle of life." In the pauses, my hands gestured, trying to help my voice speak the message. I figured he understood I meant lactating, since that's what I had hired him for.
"No one you've dated would help you with this?"
Instantly I shook my head. This was a pathetic idea. "The men in my circle are basically other university types. They're so hung up on being afraid that a woman might be intelligent. It's impossible to, to expect understanding from someone who sees you as a competitor."
I couldn't bring myself to voice the emotional undercurrent of these half-baked relationships. I had never felt at ease with someone whose mission in life was to be the biggest shark in the pool of promotion and tenure. I could never trust someone like that, much less confess my most intimate desires.
"So you hired a professional."
I smiled. "Not just like that. I've done quite a bit of research. I know that, with repeated stimulation, a woman's breasts can be induced to lactate. I just don't know if ... if my body has read the research." I tried to make a little joke out of the question that had gnawed at me for so long.
Mark's eyes were compassionate. Out loud he asked, "How full are you now?"
"Not starving, not stuffed."
"Okay. If I clean up, will you relax on the couch?"
"Uh, sure. All right."
"Good." He stood up and carried our half-eaten plates toward the kitchen. Without looking at me, he said, "You can brush your teeth if you want to."
Ten minutes later I was lying on the couch, just as the doctor ordered. It was easy again, just as it had been the first time Mark walked into my lab. He had this habit of making me feel relaxed. I distinctly felt that he knew what to do, and for once I could hand over the reins to someone else and let them drive.
Sunlight spilled its lazy lumens through the room. In the background I heard water running and some other soft noises. Then the microwave beeped, and the scent of cloves crept in.
I had already taken off my shirt.
Mark appeared, carrying a tray of steaming towels. As I struggled to sit up, he arranged pillows under my back.
"Just like that. That's good." He laid me in a reclining position. As the blanket fell away from my chest, he closed his eyes for a moment – just a moment. He had that look on his face, as he had the day before when he undressed me on my deck. I wondered what he was thinking.
But the moment was fleeting and suddenly he was doctor-like.
"Just lie back and relax," he directed. "Let me do all the work."
He proceeded to lift one long, narrow towel from the top of the stack. The steam rose in the sunlight. He wrapped it around my right breast, and my toes curled in ecstasy. Oh, garrrrrr, that felt good.
My left breast got the same treatment. The hot, damp turbans made me think of Russian onion domes. The sight did not last long as I was soon swaddled in additional layers of clean, warm cloth. It was incredibly luxurious.
I breathed a contented sigh. Maybe this whole thing was crazy, but it seemed so right, to lie there and let a man tend my body. Whatever had bothered me last night floated away.
"Good," said my host. "Lisa, you're doing beautifully."
My eyes fluttered down as he picked up my hand. He massaged it with a lavender lotion from my own collection. The scents of lavender and clove calmed my senses even further. My hands went limp in Mark's care, and I drifted off.
* * *
It seemed like only a heartbeat later that I woke. My masseuse was peeling off the towels.
"How you feelin'?"
"Good." I couldn't repress a smile.
"Excellent," he approved. He dropped the towels into a bucket and lifted the blanket so it covered one breast. Without warning he went to one knee and took the other in his mouth.
"Oh!" I gasped at the sudden, hot pleasure.
Steadily he suckled at my freshly cleaned breast, as if it were the most delicious of treats. He moved the blanket over its twin, keeping it warm and ready.
Under my pretty linen skirt, my body lubed up for some exercise it wasn't going to get. This wasn't fair, but I accepted it silently and focused on what I did have: Mark's talented tongue.
He lifted one breast in both hands and worshipped it with his mouth. My skin flushed to a delicate rose pink. I groaned and let my lips part, as if he would kiss me.
"This one, now this one," I begged, and immediately he turned his attention to my other gland. There he beseeched the divine milk to flow, orally imploring without words. Fertility speaks in tongues.
His ministrations grew more intense; he started biting lightly at the nipple in his mouth, pinching the one in his hand. He squeezed a little harder. I groaned. I had never had an orgasm from breast stimulation alone, but neither had I been with such an expert partner.
Mark lifted his head from my bosom. His eyes were dark with unmistakable lust. Using both hands, he gripped the base of my breasts and curled his fingers. Again and again he invoked my body to give up its cream. He took my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, pinching softly at first and then harder.
Sometimes he watched his hands, drinking in the sight of what he was doing to me. Mostly he looked in my eyes. I knew mentally he was penetrating me, fucking my brains out, and I sure as hell was a willing partner.
Maybe we'd never speak of it again, but both of us knew it was true.