tagIncest/TabooMother's Sweet Nectar

Mother's Sweet Nectar

bytakecare1212©

When my mom was in college she went to different parts of South America, usually small villages, and it changed her in a lot of ways, one of which was her views on breastfeeding. In her travels she saw that a lot of the women helped out in that field — if one mother was busy, or not producing, a wet nurse (as we'd call them in America), would always be there to help, whether it be a relative or somebody in the village who also had a newborn.

This seemed to spur something in my mom, something maternal, a longing to give child-giving nutrients to offspring the way these women were. It's not that surprising that she married my dad a year upon her return at twenty-one, and quickly had me, eager to partake in the nursing process with her own child.

My mother never had the biggest breasts in the world, but looking at the pictures shortly before my birth and after, you would have never known — filled with milk, engorged by the process of my coming to being, they expanded to pretty incredible size, enough to draw stares in public. And apparently the release of the milk, the actual feeding of me, was everything she thought it might be in her imagination — she weaned me late, and losing that source of goodwill, the pleasure that came from feeding me, caused her to spiral into a pretty serious depression. She soon left my dad, and when he relocated to the nearest city — leaving everything behind besides monthly alimony payments — it was just the two of us for the most part.

She was perfectly stunning, Nordic in every sense — long blonde hair, an endless pair of legs that carried a sheen to them as if they never had an imperfection; and those breasts, so big they seemed to take any shirt she might be wearing as an affront, as if they wanted to prove they could push through the fabric, their full form showing no matter how many layers she had on. Yet those looks were counteracted by her gloominess. Guys never seemed to approach her because of her iciness with anyone but myself. When it wasn't the two of us, or if she was out in public, she was locked away in her own melancholy, her own cage of darkness.

Which was why I was so surprised to see her suddenly . . . smiling. It was a few weeks after my high school graduation when she began returning home with an extra bounce, both figuratively and literally. She was constantly flashing a huge smile, and her breasts somehow seemed even larger than usual. I had no idea what was going on until I went into the kitchen one morning. It was Sunday, and a neighbor of ours was mowing the lawn early enough to hear it through my window and I couldn't go back to sleep. I went to get some cereal and couldn't really believe what I saw: my mom in the kitchen, her heaving breasts laid out over the countertop. Her bra was pulled down and she was holding her left one with two hands, pumping it, and to my surprise, producing milk.

Beneath her exposed tit was a bottle, and I had no idea she could produce milk, let alone why she would.

"Mom?!" I said, more out of sheer shock than anything.

"Wesley!" My mom said as she tried to conceal herself, failing miserably — she covered the space of her nipple extended, but the top and bottom halves popped over her arms, nearly concealing them entirely in their doughy folds. "You're usually asleep this early. You're always asleep this early!"

I quickly concealed my eyes and looked away as she put her top back on and put the bottle aside.

"Well not always, ha?!" I said. "Now you want to tell me what is going on?" I asked. "Or not, maybe I don't want to know."

"No, it's fine," she said.

I looked back to find her decent, her red top, pushing her tits up, back covering her chest.

"I've actually been helping some local women as a wet-nurse," she said. "It turns out there's a lot of women in town who can't produce milk and don't trust the alternatives on the market. They've started to look to me for assistance. Even when I'm not around they like to have some milk, so I bottle it . . . that's what you've walked in on."

I was a bit taken aback but not in a bad way. I knew now why my mother had been so happy recently — she'd found a way experience her favorite pastime, her passion for nursing.

"Well," I said. "That's . . . great, mom. I don't really know what to say. I guess I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, honey." She was still regaining her composure, the red still fading from her cheeks, when she motioned for me to come forward. "Don't act like I'm some freak! If you want some cereal, come get some cereal."

I went into the kitchen and tried to avert eye contact as I pulled down the cereal box and filled a bowl. I reached into the fridge for milk and you can imagine the irony when it became clear there wasn't any.

"Is there a problem?" My mom asked, after a moment.

I shook my head and laughed a bit, turning to face her. "No milk. Well, no milk for my cereal."

"I could've swore I just bought some," she said. "Let me look.

She leaned down beside me to inspect the fridge and her breasts nearly came out of her top — one of them mashed into my leg, and I could feel the wet spot at her nipple practically dampen my thigh. I was only in my boxers, and you can only imagine my embarrassment as I felt myself growing a bit hard, overtaken by urges that seemed inappropriate but unavoidable.

"Drats," she said. "It looks like you're right."

I quickly stepped back, shrugging my shoulders. "It's okay. I'll just have some eggs later. I think I'm gonna try to get a bit more shut-eye. I'll let you finish up."

I tried to quickly make for the hallway, but halfway there my mom called my name.

"Wesley," she said. "If anything, human milk is more nutrition than cow's milk. I'd be happy to share. . ."

Once again, I really didn't know what to say. I knew she was very lax on the subject, given her past and all, but even so this was unordinary. But given how important breastfeeding was to her, as some sort of civic good, and the great mood she had been in recently, I didn't want to go against her beliefs, or make it seem like I wasn't supportive.

"Um, if you want, mom," I said. "That'd be fine."

She didn't wait for anything, pulling the bowl of cereal close to her. She sort of looked at me questioningly, and only then did I realize she might want me to look away. Yet she took the initiative, turning to the other side of the kitchen so I could not see. Still, though, I could: Her large tits were so big that their width out-measured her waist , and her profile could not mask how busty she was.

My eyes, at this point, seemed to be acting on their own. My mother had on tight jeans like the girls wore at school, perfectly showing off her shapely ass, nearly causing the denim to burst at the seam; she bent over and I could see her hands working her breast, pumping and squeezing, the sloshing noise of the milk splashing into the bowl.

Before I knew it, against my own will, I was fully erect. Usually a plus, my penis was larger than normal — eight inches, not that I was particularly proud of it, if anything girls in school just couldn't take it all — but it was a negative now because I certainly could not mask the sight.

"Mom," I said under my breath. "You wouldn't mind bringing the bowl to me, would you?"

It must have looked so odd, me turned around, asking my mom over my shoulder to bring me my cereal, but I had no other option.

"Of course, honey."

I thought — prayed, in fact — that she might just hand the bowl over my shoulder and let me walk away. Yet she came right in front of me, so close that the tent in my pants was like a trip-wire against her thigh, catching her when she least expected it.

"Oh!" she said in shock. "Honey—"

"Thanks, mom," I said abruptly, cutting her off. I looked down and walked off before she could say another word to my face.

"I hope you like it!" she yelled down the hallway.

Sitting in my room, thinking about what happened, I couldn't shake the shame. Yet I also couldn't shake the taste of the cereal, sweet and creamy, the result of the best milk I'd ever had in my life. Perhaps my brain still held on to the subconscious memory of her feeding me so long ago, because no matter how jumbled and confused my thoughts were as to the encounter that had just taken place, one thought overruled them all - I needed another taste of her milk.

***

There was something about the image, my mom cradling a mouth to her breast, that began to enter my psyche more and more often. Whenever she came back home I watched her around the house, her breasts jiggling about, far more than they used to, filled with milk and, I know knew, always producing more.

Often just the sight of her bending over to clean, or readjusting her top, got me worked up enough to go to my room and take care of the issue. I couldn't believe I could feel such a way about my own mother, but when I thought about it, the whole thing made perfect sense — I was simply attracted to the same nutrients, the same source of food — the milk, and therefore my mom who created it — that had kept me alive so many years ago. It wasn't wrong. It was instinctual.

One day when she returned home I made a choice to do something about my urges. I was watching T.V. in the living room when she came in, sat down on the chair beside me and took off her shoes.

"Tough day?" I asked.

She seemed tired, and said as much. "You can't imagine how much demand there is for these," she said, holding up her breasts as almost a joke, groping them like I dreamed of doing. "I need to take a nap to recover! Or at least let them recover."

"I'll be out here," I said, nonchalantly, trying not to stare. "Let me know if you need something."

She got up and came over to the recliner where I was sitting. "Ah, you're so sweet," she said, and this time her tits were practically falling over my head, and I could almost smell the sweet nectar of them, still wetting her skin-tight white tee, her nipples raw, red and jutting from being suckled all day.

And just like that she was gone. When I heard her door close I immediately got up and went to the fridge. She'd just bought some milk a few days ago when we were out, but I poured the whole carton down the sink.

I waited until late that night for my next move. My mom was on the treadmill downstairs, and I went to speak with her. She had on spandex, and with every step on the machine her ass bounced up and down and her tits, heaving and bobbing within her sports bra, were practically punching into her chin.

"Mom?" I said shyly.

"Hey, sweetie!" she said, slowing down to speak with me. "What's up?"

"I just got some cookies from the pantry," I said. "I wanted to have some milk with them but . . . we're all out."

She crouched over the railing of the treadmill and her tits hung over it, the whole front see-through from her sweat, the huge orbs practically naked to my eyes. My dick was already growing as she stood back up.

"Didn't I just get some?" she asked.

"Yeah but I've been working out so much, and I have so much for the protein... I drank it all."

"Wow," she said. "You really go through it."

"I know. I was just hoping you might be willing . . ." I looked at her, letting her mind find the final words to my sentence. She looked confused, but suddenly her face went alight. "Oh! Of course. I'll help you, honey. Just hold on a moment."

She wiped herself off with a towel and then followed me upstairs. She pulled a cup from the cabinet and it seemed she'd grown more comfortable with her nursing, because she didn't even hide the act from me this time. Quickly she reached down and pulled her milk-laden tit from her t-shirt, and with a little massaging, a quick tug, the milk began to squirt out. She let out a little moan and I stood beside her, enthralled by what was taking place before me.

I was actually so concentrated that I didn't even notice my erection. I was so close to my mom that it began to prod into her thigh, and something must have overtaken me, because I didn't even pull it away. Either she didn't notice or pretended not to, because she just kept spraying her milk into the cup, slowly filling it.

"That enough, honey?" she asked.

I leaned over to look into the cup on the counter, and she only pulled her breast back enough for me to peer in, so my face was nearly on the breast itself. It smelled like her sweat and was so much her scent I found it irresistible. It sounds shameful but I was so consumed by lust I felt like taking her and putting her on the counter so I could suckle on her tits all on my own.

"Perfect," I said with a smile.

"Good," she said, and just like that she placed her tit back in her top and walked back to the stairs.

"Enjoy," she said with a smile, and you could almost get the sense she knew my enjoyment had not just come from the milk, but from what I'd just seen transpire before my very eyes.

***

The next week my mom seemed glum again. I was still enjoying summer vacation, lounging around the house for the most part when I wasn't at the gym, yet she was almost at home more than I was. Sometimes I'd see her move and it was almost as if she was in pain. When we ate together she was fairly silent, and she sometimes didn't even say hello when we passed one another. Finally I brought the whole thing up when I found her at the dinner table, looking out the window and massaging her own shoulder with her off-hand.

"Look, something is definitely up," I said.

She stopped rubbing her shoulder and I seemed to have caught her off guard, but she quickly shook her head. "What, with me? I'm fine, honey."

"No, you're not." I said. "We can communicate, mom. I mean I'm sort of the man of the house now. If you can't talk to me, who else is there? Maybe I can help."

"You can't," she said, quietly. "It's . . . it's just that the moms around town haven't needed me at all recently. Ones out of town, the other got fired and can be home with her baby all day . . . My breasts," she winced a bit, "they just hurt with all the milk. They're so big and they just put a strain on my shoulders, too. And not being able to help breastfeed hurts emotionally too, you know? It's hard to stop doing what you love."

"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry mom." I got up behind her and it seemed natural to rub her shoulder for her, and she responded immediately with a little cooing noise of approval. "Maybe I can help work out the kinks."

"It's not necessary honey," she said. "Well, I guess it does feel pretty good."

She let her head roll back and her eyes were closed, and I could clearly see her tits, so big I couldn't keep my eyes off of them. Once again I began to get an erection, and this time it was poking through the bottom slit of the chair, the head doing its own massaging of my mother's backside. I was still looking at her breasts, rubbing her shoulders, when I finally noticed my mom's eyes open, following mine to her cleavage. Yet she didn't say anything, and neither did I, and so I continued the massage.

Finally I spoke up, if only because I could not hold back any longer, my erection was so strong, my feelings equally so.

"Mom?" I said.

"Yes?"

"Maybe I can help you."

"You already are."

"In a different way, though. Remember how you helped with my cereal?"

She poked one eye open and gave me another look. "Are you hungry, baby? I can give you more milk for your cereal. It'd help me relieve some of the pain."

I pulled away from her shoulders and came beside her, sliding her chair to face me. I'm pretty big — six-three, muscular from four years as a varsity linebacker in football — and other than her tits jutting out to almost reach my abdomen, she looked almost petite beneath me. My erection prodded through my shorts but I said nothing on the matter, just stood there for a moment.

"I'm not hungry for cereal," I said. "Just for you."

I didn't let her get a word in. Immediately I leaned down, cupping her right breast in my hand, squeezing slowly, first from below, letting the whole mound sit in my hand, before moving onto the nipple. She said nothing, and looked on as if in a state of shock, yet when I pulled the nipple and milk began to soak her shirt, she made another noise and tried to stop me.

"Wesley, you shouldn't be doing this."

"I know," I said, leaning forward. "I'm getting your shirt all wet. Let me help with that, too."

"I didn't mean it like that—"

I reached behind her and in one quick movement pulled her t-shirt over her head and dropped it onto her table. Her tits reacted accordingly, wobbling at the movement before settling, finally revealed for me to see from the front and in full view. They were magnificent - large and firm yet pillow-like with milk; the areolas were moist, awaiting an eager mouth, dripping already

I came almost to a kneel and her legs spread, allowing me to scoot between them, her tits right above my head.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, but it was too late.

I latched onto her nipple, holding the whole breast still, and began to suckle, the milk gushing forth and filling my mouth, warm and as sweet as I'd expected. The stream pulsed with my every inhalation, offering me more, and rivulets flowing down my cheek. Before long my mother held my head to her breast, as if to encourage me, and her moans began to fill the room.

"The other one," she said. "Suck it dry, Wesley. Please."

I knew I would but I wanted better access to her, to her breasts, to her body. I stood up and grabbed her hand, and she stood up as well, following me into her bedroom. The sun snuck through the blinds and lay strips of golden light upon the bed. I picked up my mother and placed her onto the bed, and half plunged into the shade, half into the brightness of the room, it seemed to represent her emotions, her struggle to find happiness, and I only wanted to help lead her to the light.

I was a bit caught up in the moment, staring at her, and my mother, perhaps done with being watched, coaxed me forward; her eyes were on my groin, and she leaned upwards and grabbed there, at my extended penis, pulling me onto the bed.

"Where'd you get something so big, sweetie? Not your father, that's for sure."

There was no time to answer as I was already feasting on her left breast. She was on her back and I straddled her leg, half my body on her own, the other on the bed itself. I swallowed the milk steadily yet some still escaped my mouth, and now it flowed down her body, intermingling and meeting where my penis lay upon her thigh and beyond. My dick quickly grew to full length and the milk was like lube, and I could not stop myself from thrusting into her, as if her thigh was her pussy, using it as I continued to suckle her sweet juices from her nipple.

"That's it, baby," she said. "That's just what mommy needs."

I placed my other hand on her other breast while her own hand began to roam, searching down my pecs, my stomach, finding my penis, slowly rubbing the head intimately, letting her fingers twirl around the tip, sensitive and bursting with feeling. I could feel dollops of precum leaking out and she pulled her hand from beneath me, the strands of clear fluid stuck on her fingers as she placed it in her mouth and sucked it clean. It was too much, I repositioned myself, climbing atop her, my cock outstretched and rearing over her midsection.

"It's enormous," she said in shock, reeling. "But we can't— you know. . ."

"I just want to make you feel better, mom. You know that. You gave me milk but I have my own that you could use. Let me give it to you."

She grinned a bit and let her head fall back.

"Do it," she said, eyes closed, as if taken over by the many sensations of the afternoon. "Give it to me, honey."

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