At dinner, Bobby has seconds and then thirds. He eats heartily and I encourage him. I ask him about his day, about his work and about Linda, his pretty little wife. They are trying for a baby these days. He seems relaxed and happy and after dinner, we move to the living room to watch some television. I sit on the couch and Bobby stretches out with his head in my lap. The silence settles in around us, save for the soft hum of the television and the sound of his mouth working the pacifier. I rake my fingers through his hair and his own hands glide over his belly and the ever-present bulge in his diaper. After about a half an hour, Bobby becomes restless and I feel him shift on my lap, one hand moving up from his stomach to the front of my blouse. My attention diverts from the television when I feel his hand lifting one of my breasts, testing it’s weight in his palm, squeezing lovingly. He does the same to the other breast and then alternates between them. It is hard for me to ignore his attention, as sensitive as my breasts are, but for a few moments, I pretend not to notice.
Bobby grows bolder and sits up slightly, undoing the buttons on my blouse and exposing my breasts, clad in their lacy white bra. He removes his pacifier and nuzzles his face into the valley of my cleavage, one hand holding each breast. I can no longer ignore my son and I reach up and cradle his head against me. I know what he wants and I ease his head back slightly, then use my free hand to extract my left breast from my bra, baring it to him. My nipple is fat and swollen and very pink, surrounded by an areola in the same color. Bobby’s mouth nearly waters and I guide my nipple between his lips. There is no milk for him to suckle, but it doesn’t stop him from trying all the same. I feel his tongue massage my nipple, taking a good portion of my breast into his mouth and the sensation is so pleasurable. He scoots up a little bit so that he is laying across my lap, his head cradled in the crook of my arm, his eyes closed in bliss, his legs moving restlessly while he strokes his hand over the bulge in his diaper again and again.
This is what usually happens after Bobby has his dinner on Thursday nights. He loves to nurse and I believe it deepens our bond. There is mutual pleasure in it for both of us. Each movement of his mouth causes a delightful surge of wet pleasure right between my thighs. But it is more than that. His suckling fills me with affectionate nostalgia, reminding me of the days when he was just a baby and I used to nurse him and gaze into his little face, wondering what he would be when he grew up, what he would look like. There was never any sexual pleasure in it then and while there is some now, what I feel mostly is that strong sense of satisfaction, that I am fulfilling the needs of my boy.
Bobby takes his time and suckles at each breast for more than an hour. I watch his face and his eyes are closed, blissfully enjoying the feeling of his mother’s swollen nipple in his mouth. I glance down to find he has stopped caressing the outside of hisdiaper and now has his hand inside of it, which leads me to pull gently on his wrist. There have been times when he has spurted into his diaper too early and we have much to do before that time comes. I decide he’s had enough nursing for now and gently ease my nipple from his mouth, earning a soft murmur of disappointment when I do so. “Oh… Mommy, please….”
“You can have more later, honey. Now is time for your massage.” He seems to be appeased by this, at least for the moment. I work my breasts back into my bra, both of my nipples now wet and glistening with his saliva. I leave my blouse open, though, allowing him to gaze at as much of my ample clevage as he desires. The next part of our evening proceeds as we return to Bobby’s room and he stretches out on his back on the bed. I squeeze a generous amount of the baby oil into my hands and spread it over his belly, starting there and working my way up to his shoulders. He murmurs contentedly every now and again and I know it is both pleasure and torture for him because I do not allow him to touch himself at all. He keeps his arms thrown up over his head, sometimes gripping the bars on the headboard of his old bed when I massage the oil into his spread thighs or along his ribcage. I take my time and usually spend about forty-five minutes on his front. He moves over onto his belly then and I am able to straddle his bottom, perched on his diaper while I work the oil into his shoulder blades and back. There is so much tension in his body but my nimble fingers work those knots free and it all begins to melt away. I feel a certain indescribable fullness, watching his face as it is turned to one side, and I can see how relaxed my son is.
It always happens when I am massaging him and the relaxation has fully set in. He will move his hips a bit restlessly and then issue forth a few soft grunts and I know that I will smell it soon after that. Sometimes it’s easy and only takes him a few minutes of pushing and groaning. Other times, when he’s a bit constipated, it will take longer and he will have to really strain and bear down. Sometimes I have to end the massage early and remove his diaper so that I can stroke his cock for him, which will usually aid him in dislodging the most stubborn turds. Sometimes even that doesn’t work and I will have to resort to giving him an enema. Tonight he seems to be doing just fine, though. I feel him tense and then relax, exhaling when that final grunt is given.
Already the stench of his filled diaper is filling the air between us, a wordless reminder that he needs to be changed… very soon.