In junior high school calling a girl a cow was one of the biggest non-profane insults regularly used. I was lucky enough to be within traditional weight and height boundaries so that insult was never used against me. It's ironic that later in life, after having two kids, becoming and being called a cow became an odd mark of pride for me.
Like so many other things it starts off innocently enough. I had two kids and breastfed both of them. My husband was fascinated with this whole process, not just the fact my boobs went from a respectable C cup to an overflowing D. Every man is excited by that event. But Michael not only liked this, but liked to watch my babies nurse, and didn't mind that I had to wear nursing bras and stuff them with leak-proof pads. I wasn't surprised that he didn't mind getting a little breast milk on him from time to time when I leaked in bed. But when we had sex for the first time after giving birth, he latched on to my tit and wouldn't let go until he had drunk half his fill.
I liked being on top, it gave me a sense of control. I wasn't big on lying back and letting a man slam his cock into me; I always wanted to be an active participant during sex. So there I was, kneeling above my husband, working his cock back and forth in my cunt, when he sat up and kissed my neck, which I liked, then worked his way down to my breasts, which I also liked, then I realized he was sucking on my left nipple, which I normally liked, but he wasn't sucking to give me pleasure, but to drink my milk.
"Stop that," I said, pulling my tit from his mouth. "That's for the baby."
He didn't say anything and went right to my other tit. He made a noise I interpreted to mean he thought my milk was delicious.
"There won't be enough for the baby," I complained, pulling my other nipple out of his greedy mouth, crossing my arms in front of my breasts and leaning back out of easy range.
"Sure there will be," Michael argued. "Haven't you always told me that your breasts will make as much milk as he needs?"
"That's with just him drinking!" I hissed at him.
"What about women who have twins?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
"That's what I thought," he said, pulling me back to him. His lips clamped on my left tit again and he started sucking my milk. It was...nice. His latch and suck was much stronger than my son's. I could feel the milk being literally sucked, pulled from my body. When one of my children nursed, I knew my milk was being taken, but I couldn't feel it like I could with Michael. It caused a shiver to run up my back and I squeezed his cock with my vag muscles. It felt good. I couldn't help myself, my body responded on its own, my hips pumping back and forth, trying to make his cock spill its seed in me again. I clutched his head to my breast and ran my fingers through my husband's curly hair.
The orgasm I had was strange, both good and strange. It didn't just originate from my clit and cunt, but from my breasts as well.
He was right—a fact I resented—my baby, only six months old, didn't suffer at all. And Michael nursing from me simply increased my overall milk supply. I could feel my breasts getting bigger. I hated it when he was right, but I certainly enjoyed it when we lay down in bed together and he took my full breast in his mouth and slowly drained me. It was a little slice of heaven connecting to the two of us.
It was so easy to fall into a pattern of behavior that you don't even think about how you're acting and how your behavior is completely different from the rest of the world. At first it seemed strange that Michael liked to suckle from me, but then it became the most normal thing in the world and I started looking forward to lying down in bed and having him latch on to me. I'd drift off to sleep running my fingers through his hair. Sometimes we'd fuck first, then nurse and sleep. Other times he'd suckle first, then we'd fuck, then sleep. Most often it was just suckling and then sleep. They were all good.
"What is this?!" I demanded when I opened the small jewelry case.
"It's a necklace," Michael patiently explained to me.
"I can see that." I picked it up from the case and carefully examined the odd little piece. It was a choker necklace in silver and black. The black band intended to go around the neck was slippery-smooth, I wasn't sure at first if it was silk or satin, but it was much thicker than usual for those materials. The heavy clasp was ornamental silver, as was the sliding charm, which was a tiny and cute square bell. When I turned over the material I noticed my name, Beth, carefully and ornamentally stitched into the thick silk. I fingered it while thinking.
Michael noticed my actions and spoke up. "I had it specially made for you. The chain is thick because it needed a certain stiffness and strength to take the ornamental stitching. Try it on."
He took it from my hands, slipped behind me, and before I knew it the necklace was encircling my throat. I had to admit that he had done an excellent job with the sizing, not too tight or loose, he must have somehow gotten my neck measurement without me knowing. It was pretty, austere and bold in its own fashion. I adjusted the band so that my name appeared just below the pulse of my jugular, the charm centered above the notch of my collar bones. I admired myself in the bedroom mirror while Michael unbuttoned my shirt and started disrobing me. He kissed the side of my neck. "You look beautiful."
When my bra came off exposing my full breasts to view, it suddenly came to me what I looked like. "I'm a cow!" I cried out as Michael squeezed my tits forcing a slow drip of milk.
"Uh-huh," Michael agreed with me, not at all upset with what he had done.
I would have physically pushed him away if he didn't already have one hand down my pants. I was a slave to my body; his fingers were rubbing my clit, making my panties wet. The other hand was wrapped around a breast, massaging the milk slowly out of it. "That's mean," I complained. It was more of a sigh than an actual complaint.
"You're a beautiful cow," he whispered in my ear, and then pulled his hand out of my panties to turn me around. His mouth latched onto my free breast and he started suckling. It felt wonderful. I looked down at his face as he drank from me. My heart warmed at the sight and I pushed my pants down off my hips.
"Girls don't like to be called cows," I told him.
"You do," he replied while pulling off my breast and turning me around. I was wet and willing and ready so when he pushed me down on my hands and knees, I didn't resist. So what if he wanted to call me a cow in private? Who else was to know? "Ready to be bred by your bull?" he asked, nudging his cock against my wet sex.
"Fuck me," I sighed, dropping my shoulders to the bed and keeping my ass in the air. Michael slipped into me and started thrusting with great enthusiasm. I moved my hands under my chest and played with my teats. My milk was slowly seeping out, wetting the sheets of the bed. My body faintly shook with each of Michael's thrusts and each time I could hear the tinkle of the bell around my neck. I was a cow.
I squeezed around his cock with my vag muscles, trying to pull his seed from his cock. It didn't take long. Obviously this was a fantasy he had been planning for some time.
When he splashed his hot seed inside my vag, I could feel it heating up my cervix. That was all I needed; I moaned because it was too much to bear, my body shook and broke out all over in a fine sheen of sweat as I orgasmed. Michael kept thrusting into me, east thrust ending with another spurt of cum flooding me.
It might not have been traditional, but I did enjoy the orgasms.