Mom and son, incest, sex stories, Son desperate for mother’s milk knows the way to her heart… 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.