Wild Child

Onstage, the baby sucked at the left breast of the swooning woman. I watched in amazement from the back of the club, undergoing toward my best friend a mixture of emotions I rarely encountered together: shock and concern, sure, and yet, deeper within me, a more poignant love for Leslie than I'd ever felt. And deeper still ...? I was turned on.

The "baby" in her arms was fake, it turns out. A decadent, lifelike stage prop from somewhere in Europe. Of course, my friend's perfectly stunning boobs were not fake. And Leslie, the sporter of them, was truly the real thing.

I am the club's owner—with Jackson, my husband—and Leslie was our new regular. Dancer, that is (or else supposed to be) ... a regular showgirl, that one, behind the mild demeanor. We share the same birthday.

"Lez" stands 5'7", higher with heels. When she performs, the wings of her medium-length blonde hair, cut in a bob, play a sort of patty-cake with the lines of her tapered jaw, under the high, fair cheeks. When we were teens I would marvel at her womanly hips, and now her shoulders appeared to have caught up with them in breadth. She is beautiful like a moving sculpture. Leslie loves men, and I believe she's loved a woman or two. I certainly know her to be a lover of the life of the mind, of fantasy, and in her quiet way, of people. But you sometimes have to keep an eye on her. Not a hard thing to do. Besides the obvious, there are her eyes. They don't so much take you in as invite you for a swim ...

Leslie has put us on the map. Already feeling like sisters, I scored big when Leslie ceased meandering abroad and moved back to town. Maybe her type of sensuality, I thought, was just what the gentrifying Pittsburgh needed. We could give her another start after some honest mistakes ... channel the talent I remembered from our high-school classes in theatre and dance.

I should have guessed she'd expanded into erotic performance art. Leslie is capable of meeting an audience right where they need to be met—which is usually around the next bend in their brain. We're actually on the brink of recognition by the "perv" crowd in New York.

She and I used to talk about the possibilities of family life to come, but soon enough I knew she was headed for a less conventional life. On the last day of high school, Leslie looked into my eyes in the woods on the way home and proceeded to make faltering love to me before she ran away with her boyfriend the next day; I cried, but could only pray for her protection and let her go, hoping for the best. It was our only time like that. So sweet. However, now that she was back, I found myself with not only a husband, but also our seven-month-old baby—both of which are acquired tastes, I can assure you.

I mentioned my concern for Leslie. I've actually been so busy that we really haven't time to catch up like I wanted. Something told me she was regretting not marrying and even having a child of her own. It could happen.

When our birthday, March 20, approached, I proposed a weekend trip together in what was left of the country. We were backstage after a show. Leslie had just gone on as a firegirl and at the end of the act muscled a wide, black water hose. We actually ran a few blasts of water through it, as Leslie sprayed down the brickwork to each side of the stage. Once the valve was off, she put on a sulk and stepped downstage, holding the end of the hose toward the row of men in front, letting it dribble pitifully from the hole. Her pout turned to peeved and she flung a last necklace of droplets at them, let the hose fall to the floor, and strode off bitchily. What a queen. Everyone loved it.

I was helping her undo something at the back of her costume as we talked. "Sure, that sounds good, Jenna," she said, already relaxing after her performance. "Maybe we could we follow it with a birthday celebration the night we get back. At your place. Since you'd be driving, I could sleep over?"

This occasional touch of assertiveness from Leslie always managed to have a heady effect on me, but like many things over the years, it went unexamined.

"A slumber party!" I said. "Great."

"Jackson and Molly can be there."

Behind her, I chuckled briefly and smiled. Of course they would be there, they were my family and it was my birthday.

Her getup was part of an authentic firefighter's suit from her private stock. But it had a fussy clasp, or my concentration had slipped. All of a sudden, my fingers zigged when they should've zagged and the whole coat ended up falling to her feet, leaving her stark.

"Oops, sorry," I squeaked.

She just thanked me and walked to the dresser-! My God, but her backside was tempting ... and then, still frozen, I got a full frontal thanks to the mirror. My pleasure, I thought.

She said, "I look forward to our trip. Just remember, it's your birthday too."

+++++

The spring season brought good weather early. Jackson was a sweetie and helped oversee the club operations on our "missing weekend." Leslie and I went to the Pocono mountains, sleeping both Friday and Saturday at a bed-and-breakfast; we ate well, and generally kept away from heart-shaped bathtubs.

Driving back, things got even more interesting when the poor thing revealed she'd had to have an abortion back in Paris! The fact that she came right out and told me this—in French, no less—while I was driving (forcing me to do some quick translation) made me want to grip her shoulders the way I was now doing the steering wheel. And shake her. But I knew she was strange, and enticingly so. I wouldn't have her any other way.

We discussed the particulars a while, and then she put a soft hand on my right shoulder. Immediately my tension eased.

"That feels good," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the road. "I'm a captive audience, unfortunately." She was looking at the side of my olive-complected face. I continued in a somewhat different vein: "So I've noticed how sensitive you are to our audiences, which I appreciate. Still, um ... I mean, the thing with the doll—"

"They were so respectful, did you see it?" Leslie interrupted unforcefully. "Even the front row ... Guess I really had them fooled at first." Her head dropped a bit and a warm rain was beginning. You could hear it pattering on the roof. I glanced at Lez: the incipient fey smile ... the full breasts ... fingertips slipping from my arm. I thought I saw a few wet drops on her shirt, was the roof leaking? Eyes back to the road. Ahh, life seemed short; and the traffic hummed, and my heart fluttered. One of us needed nursing. I didn't know which one.

Breaking my reverie, she beamed up at me and said, "So we're twenty-eight."

It was good to get home. Raining cats and dogs now. Leslie lagged with her old light-green duffel but we made it to the house, looking like we were each trying to win a wet t-shirt contest. Jackson came from the kitchen and we had a group hug. All backswept black hair and gleaming smile, he told us something about dinner and cake and ice cream, and sent us laughing to the showers.

+++++

I got the feeling the entire city was retiring early that Sunday night, that it slept like the proverbial baby. A local sports team had choked in the playoffs, and we actually needed all the rain.

Two mouths sucked at the breasts of the woman on the couch. No one was sure who was the giver, who the given ... it didn't matter. No one had to get up early Monday, either, and Molly was asleep upstairs. She'd had her milk.

Jackson and I were having Leslie's. I have never experienced anything like it.

Here's how it went down. When dinner and cake were done, we settled into the living room, little Molly placidly in the middle. Jackson in a chair and I on the sofa; we both faced out toward Leslie, who had the loveseat she'd become partial to. After a sip of pinot noir, I took our daughter up the short flight of stairs and tucked her in the crib. Leslie remarked, not for the first time, on how well-behaved the child was. Her parents reiterated that they never saw her as calm as when Leslie was in the house.

Our sexy friend had on a low-cut silk top, cream colored, with the tails tucked out, allowing her belly button to peek at us through the course of the evening. She seldom wore a bra, and wasn't now. We had some pink champagne on hand, and Leslie sipped from a glass of it.

Then something happened. Twenty minutes into conversation, Lez's hand started going idly to her breasts, as if she were aiding or comforting them. Maybe her chest was hurting her, I thought. Jackson and I weren't swingers; but we did exchange a glance or two as our girl kept this up on and off for the next fifteen minutes. We each had a voyeuristic streak or else we wouldn't have started the club. But I was ready for something else. Relax, I quietly reminded myself, you've got a little private show going on in your own living room.

We were playing old CDs that night, and on my way to put on another, something by Mazzy Star, I gave Leslie a rather improper leer, the air through my slacks slightly chilling the damp at my crotch. No sooner had I sat down again than she stood and did some light stretches, ending by swaying to the music. Our eyes swam with her. She was the subtle seductress, and as such, would have to make the next move. At least that's what I told myself.

"Glad you're enjoying your birthday, honey," I said.

Leslie and Jackson spoke almost as one: "And you, too?" Pleasantly on the spot, I was, but in the flow. Yes, me too. I dropped my smiling eyes downward, took another sip of the noir.

Seated again, Leslie continued: "I mean, the two of you have been so good to me ..."

My melting heart. Then, looking at me directly, she said, "And you even remembered the pink champagne from when we partied in the woods as kids."

My God, I hadn't remembered. I didn't know when, why, or where we'd picked up that bottle ...! But my legs were now walking me over to join her on the couch. Observing myself sitting and embracing her for the umpteenth time that weekend, I muttered, perhaps too loudly, "I don't seem to be able to get enough of hugging you these days." Her fresh, unperfumed body had my pussy feeling like an oyster.

And now, was I pulling back and gently unbuttoning her blouse? My nerves were telling me to get on with it, be exact in your intentions ... don't be caught looking silly. But when I heard Jackson behind me murmur a soft "yes" to the scene, all fumbliness went out the window, and the moment became charged with my unadorned lust.

Leslie stroked my hair as I got her shirt off and started nuzzling her breasts with my cheek, ravishing her nipples with my lips. They were like creamberry puffins. I buried my face in the undercrescent of her left mound, tracing my tongue along the closer, heated flesh near the ribcage. Her chest was a godsend to me. Staring back at her white-capping nipples, everything made sense. My 28 years dropped away in an instant and I became a baby, a damned hungry one, too, and she let me be 'cause I was her friend and she was relieved to be giving. What Leslie gave was sweet and nourishing ... and thankfully, copious. It now flowed like a pearly well from her right breast, requiring rescue.

I obliged then gazed up at her lovely face, hoping my own didn't appear too slack. I saw her eyes, a forest green, I swear, move in Jackson's direction; her hand had strayed from my hair to heft her left sac. Gladness filled me, and I answered her unspoken plea: "Would you like twins?"

With just a touch of embarrassment, she said, "I think I need some help."

My husband had been indulging in a cigarette. "But you won't need that pacifier," I told him, panting, "and wash your mouth out with a slug of wine, okay?"

As he did that, I looked back up at Leslie, who brought her left tit to her mouth and drank from it like a coconut. Titty milk ran down her chin.

In another moment Jackson and I were on our mommy's belly, each with a tit. I don't know if twins trade off, but that's what we did, repeatedly. It's an amazing fact about tits that you can leave the most beautiful thing on earth—a tit—to go to something new, and then find it—the other tit—to also be the most beautiful thing on earth. We were on our knees before this goddess of the stage. We would kiss each other in passing, and Leslie welcomed our lips everywhere they landed. Each of us also took turns in heavy mouth-kissing sessions with Leslie, our saliva and her hot formula becoming a viscous, silken mixture and making us reach now and then for the pink bubbly.

It got warm. Jackson took his shirt off, and I did the same, freeing my own breasts. They had begun to reduce to size since I devoted less time to nursing Molly. Leslie took the opportunity to strip down to her panties, lie down on the loveseat, and ease her contoured legs over an armrest. Jackson began to massage her feet as I puckered her knees with fishy kisses.

"Suck her toes, Jack ... like you do mine [kiss] ... great dancer [kiss] ... reward." Speaking was becoming difficult.

I could see my boobs were becoming the focus of Leslie's eyes. Nothing lasts: it was time for the "good couple," we selfish sucking babies, to give a little. But first she had to make me jealous. As Jackson was sidling up cushions and curves to lap some dribbling milk, Leslie pulled him closer, dipped her head, and started sucking his nipples. Stretching them right out! After the bitch's appetizer I needed no prompting, but crammed my grapefruit tits into Leslie's mouth and watched her whale. We sucked each other's heaving glands and rubbed them together, stoking more fire everywhere. Now this was catching up with each other! In the dim lamplight, I almost got confused as to which set mashed—I mean matched! Jackson, lucky man, got himself deliriously lost in the hills and valleys.

At last the hills shook, though: Leslie's orgasm! And my own—as well as that of my man—also came in an awesome flooding fit, and directly in tribute to Leslie's breasts. I thought that was a nice way to come.

+++++

Afterward, when we were all stretched stupidly on the floor, I was about to quip that we had an opening for a wet nurse. That's when we heard the crying ...

We looked toward the staircase.

Looked at Leslie.

Leslie looked ... Leslie got up. I saw a single milkdrop fall to the floor as she slowly climbed. Our birthday evening was over, but life was ever calling.