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.
“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.
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