We put the milk in the fridge, figuring that it would probably spoil if we left it out -- it was milk, after all, and unpasteurized, at that, even if it came from Marcy, and not a cow. I really didn't know what we would do with it, but it seemed wasteful to just throw it away. Perhaps we could save some, in case Sally was ever hungrier than what Marcy had on hand.
The next morning, Marcy and I were scavenging around the kitchen for our breakfast. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, and was rummaging in the fridge for the creamer, when I saw the cup of Marcy's milk. Impulsively, I pulled it out, and held it up, along with my coffee, for Marcy to see. Realizing what I had in mind, she grinned. "What a great idea!" she said.
I poured the Marcy-milk into my coffee and took a sip. It was delicious. I smacked my lips. "Good to the last drop!" I smiled. Then, when I got myself a bowl of oatmeal, I used the rest of her milk on that. There was something delightfully erotic, even mildly 'kinky', about consuming my wife's bodily fluids with my breakfast.
My love of breasts has never left me. It has only grown deeper and richer over time, as I've come to understand the full range of their capabilities, beyond mere erotic ornamentation. Although, I have to admit, the erotic ornamentation is still plenty hot.
Sally is three years old now, walking and talking and everything. It's a bit over a year since she was weaned, but Marcy has been saying lately that she wants to start trying to have another baby. I can hardly wait. . .