Well Fed [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

In the crisp autumn air, full moon in the sky, and glasses full of booze, we sit on the deck for some post-game analysis. Such is the unspoken tradition after one of our weekend soirees. Everyone else has consumed too much food and/or alcohol and has hit the road, leaving behind a small group of devoted gossipers to talk about the comings and goings of the local social scene.

If I didn’t live here, I’d have probably left too. Instead, I’m drinking yet another vaguely brown beverage in a cocktail glass that burns my throat. I haven’t a clue what it is. A cannabis vape is being passed around.

Luke’s inside with Senthil, under the guise of ‘cleaning up.’ This usually means that they’re playing the kids’ Mario Kart game. Fine by me. That just leaves us ladies on the deck.

Tonight, it’s me, Daphne, Courtney, and Nico. Daphne and Courtney might as well be my sisters, we’ve known each other for so long. I swear they come to these things just for the after-party dishing. Nico is the wild card. I barely know her and, frankly, I’m not sure that I like this interloper invading our space.

“Did you see Amy’s dress?” Court asks.

“The green one?” Daphne responds.

“Yep.”

“Wait,” I say. “Is that the green dress?”

Courtney offers a single nod, and it’s enough to send Daphne and I into a cackling bout of laughter.

Nico, to her credit, just smiles and sits idly. She doesn’t try to laugh along with something she doesn’t know about. She doesn’t ask questions. I respect that. Amy once sat here with us, on a night like this. She laughed when she shouldn’t have laughed. She asked too many questions. She ruined the vibe–quite possibly the most heinous crime.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed Nico’s potential. “So, I’m sorry,” Courtney says to her. “I don’t think I know much about you.”

“Ah, well,” Nico says, clearing her throat–seemingly ready to let us into the mysterious world that is her.

“She’s fucking Paige’s husband,” Daphne interjects, pointing at me as if I was my husband.

There’s a moment of silence before we all burst into laughter again. Even Nico, rightfully so, joins us. It’s funny because it’s true.

“I, uhm, can’t deny that,” she says, shrugging modestly. She shoots me a hesitant smile, desperately seeking my approval. She doesn’t need it, but I appreciate the gesture.

“Somebody’s got to do it,” I say. More laughter. I wonder how funny we’d think these things are when we’re not stoned and drunk.

Just in time, Daphne passes me the vape and I take another hit before passing it to Nico. She passes it to Court, skipping herself. It’s the second time I’ve seen her do this.

“Not a fan of weed?” I ask.

“I can’t,” she says, shrugging. “I wish I could.”

“No?” asks Court. “Why not? Allergic or something?”

Nico grabs her chest and gives them a playful bounce for us. They are quite voluptuous. “I’m still producing.”

“Producing?” asks Court, exhaling a fluffy white cloud into the night sky.

“Milk,” I answer for her. “She has a baby.”

“A baby?” Court asks, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me Luke did this to you.” More laughter.

This, I suspect, is usually the awkward part of this conversation. Or, at least, it seemed awkward when she and I talked about it.

“I call him my baby,” Nico says, “but he’s not quite an…infant.”

I watch Court and Daphne lean in a little, eager to hear an elaboration on that. They’re practically salivating, absolutely ravenous for whatever Nico is going to say next.

“Tell us more,” Daphne says after a few more seconds of silence pass.

I’m almost tempted to speak on Nico’s behalf again, though I bite my tongue. It’s not my story to tell.

“He’s my other partner,” Nico finally says, shrugging a little. Her body language says: I know this is weird to you, but I’ve already made my peace with it. I like it.

“Other partner? Court says, glancing back to Daphne to make sure that she’s hearing this too. Everyone, at this point, is well aware of the polyamorous circles that Luke and I run in, so I don’t think it’s the fact Nico has another partner that’s tripping the ladies up.

“How old is he?” Daphne asks. “And please don’t tell me he’s in pre-school.”

“No, no,” Nico says, waving away the poor joke with her hand. “He’s 22. 23? Somewhere around there.”

Court shook her head defiantly. She was perpetually the character in a horror film who refused to believe that all her friends were being murdered off screen by some terrible beast, despite all the mounting evidence. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Induced lactation,” Nico says. “It’s something that Bobby is into and I thought I’d try it for him. It’s a lot of work, but…I find it pretty rewarding.”

“Aw, Bobby,” Daphne chuckles, sitting back in her seat again. “He’s even got a little baby-boy name.”

“Has Luke ever had a taste?” I ask. I almost can’t believe I’ve never asked this question before.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Between you and me? And…everyone else? I’m not sure if he’s too timid to ask or if he just doesn’t like the idea of it.”

“Timid is my guess,” I say, taking a sip of the burny brown liquid. “There were two years between when I found him looking up advice on the internet on how to ask for anal sex and when he actually asked for it.”

“He has yet to ask me that,” Nico says.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“So, like, what’s the appeal?” Court asks Nico, seemingly eager to get us back on the topic of breastmilk.

It’s hard to say in the dim light on the deck, but it looks to me like Nico’s cheeks are getting a little pink. “I think it’s just something that turns him on, I dunno. Some men like that, I guess. They want to feel…cared for.”

“Do you change his diapers too?” Daphne asks. We all laugh again, but it’s a slightly different kind of laugh–we’re all looking in Nico’s direction to hear the answer to that.

“So far as I know, he isn’t into diapers,” she says.

“You should ask,” Daphne says. “That’s a thing, you know? I saw a show about it on TV.”

“You don’t want to have to start changing diapers too,” Court says, shaking her head. “Take it from a mother of two. That’s a filthy and thankless job.”

I look down at the armrest of my wooden adirondack chair and notice that my fingers are idly tapping upon it. I know that little subconscious maneuver well enough–curiosity. I giggle to myself, the sound thankfully being lost in the sound of wind blowing through the lawn’s dry leaves.

“I have to ask,” Daphne says. “What does it taste like? You’ve tried it, right?”

“A little,” Nico says, smiling bashfully. “I’d say it’s a little…almond-y? Bobby seems to like it.”

“No offense,” Court says, “but if your breasts were pumping out gravy, he’d be guzzling that too.”

“On that note, maybe it’s past my bedtime,” Daphne says, taking a look at the time on her phone.

“Yeah,” Court says, standing up. “I guess I should collect my husband and get out of your hair.”

“Well I’m certainly not kicking you out,” I say. “You’re welcome to stay overnight if you want.”

“I’m being polite,” Court says, laughing to herself. “I’m exhausted.”

I follow Court and Daphne back into the house, where we find Senthil and Luke half-asleep on the couch as an old episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire plays on the TV. I’m curious to know how that happened, but I doubt they know themselves. Sen is shaken awake and we all say our goodbyes, with the exception of Luke–who seems to have only fallen into a deeper slumber.

I sigh with relief after closing the front door behind them. As much as I love our parties, I love this moment just as much–watching the headlights of our last guests’ cars back down the driveway.

Am I forgetting something?

I glance back through the dining room’s sliding glass window to see a figure still sitting on the deck. I almost forgot that Nico was still here. I’m tempted to be annoyed at this–I was more than ready to stop entertaining–but I actually don’t mind her presence. We’ve spent very little time with each other since she started seeing my husband, and maybe a little one-on-one time isn’t a bad thing.

Besides, I always find myself feeling a little extra confident when it comes to speaking to Luke’s other partners. I can see why some would feel jealousy, or fear that they’re being replaced. Not me. We’ve been married for over 15 years now. Tried and true–I’ve stood the test of time. In my mind, I’m the goalline that any new partner can only hope to achieve.

“Aren’t you chilly?” I ask, stepping back out onto the porch, closing the door behind me.

“I like it,” she says. “It’s funny, I don’t like air conditioning in the summer, but I love naturally cool weather like this.”

“Makes sense to me,” I say, retaking my seat next to her. “You gotta have the real thing.”

“I hope your friends like me,” she says. “I worry that I’m now going to be the weirdo ‘other’ woman who breastfeeds men.”

“There are worse things to be,” I assure her, reaching over to rub her shoulder. “Court has been married twice and now she’s engaged again. Daphne is still obsessed with the same high-school players who dumped her 20 years ago. If you can make a man happy by letting them suck on your tit, I see nothing wrong with that.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate you saying that.”

“I can level the playing field a little, if you want.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, you were forthcoming about some personal information tonight. Maybe I could divulge a secret of my own to you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that…”

“But you won’t stop me from confessing something if I want to, right?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Go for it.”

“I’m rather curious about the taste of your breastmilk, myself.”

Her cheeks seem to get a little rosy again as she smiles. “Really?”

I shrug. “It tends to be frowned on to ask new mothers to taste their breastmilk. But, seeing as how you’re already feeding an adult…”

“Would you like a taste?”

“Yes,” I say. I’m a little hesitant to say the next bit, but I choose to just go for it: “Preferably from the source?”

She politely laughs, but there’s nothing in her body language or expression that suggests she’s offended by the idea.

“It’s a little nippy out here,” she says, almost as if she was starting an entirely new conversation.

“Agreed,” I say. “Maybe we should go inside?”

“I’d hate to bother Luke…”

“He’s been drinking all night,” I say. “He’ll be out until lunchtime tomorrow, at the earliest.”

Nico and I stand at the same time. We offer each other shy smiles, like we each have a secret that we’re trying to hide from the imaginary people that are around us. I walk back into the house without another word and she silently follows. Through the dining room. Through the living room, past the slumbering Luke. I take the stairs down to the den and she follows. I suspect I could’ve easily just walked up to the bedroom and she’d have followed me there too. Alas, I’m trying to show a little decorum.

“Can I get you anything else to drink?” I ask as we enter the den–the more casual living space we tend to occupy when there aren’t guests over. “Eat?”

“I’m good, thank you.” She quickly follows this up with a question of her own: “Perhaps I could get you something to drink?”

Her confident tone and boldness surprise me. It’s a welcome surprise. I feel my cheeks warm a little as I offer just a little nod in return.

She takes a seat at the end of the couch, leaving plenty of room for me next to her, and pats her lap gently. It’s a cute invitation, but I’m not entirely sure what she wants me to do.

“Come,” she says. “Lie down over here.”

I’m a little taken aback. I’m usually the one telling people what to do. I’m the one in control. I’m dominant. I’m not sure which catches me more off guard–that she’s so comfortable taking charge, or that I’m so comfortable with abandoning the control I usually crave.

I do as she asks, lowering myself into a horizontal position, my legs stretched out across the unused couch cushions as my torso and head find themselves over her lap. I have no memory of being breastfed as an infant, and I’ve certainly never had the chance to do it any other time in my life–yet the position seems incredibly obvious and intuitive to me.

She slowly pulls her thick sweater over her head, tossing it near my feet on the couch. Next, she removes her cream tank top. Finally, all that’s left is her bra, a simple black thing that barely seems to be containing her hefty breasts–no doubt chock full of the milk I crave. The bra has a clasp in the front, conveniently, and the moment she unfastens it, her chest practically explodes out from it. I can almost imagine a cartoonish floomp!

“What do I do?” I ask, my voice soft. Really, just lying in her lap might be enough. It’s cozy and warm. Comfortable. I feel like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle, perfectly fitting into my adjacent piece.

“I could do this,” she says, giving her right breast a slight squeeze, spraying a fine stream of milk into my face.

Bathed by the nectar of the goddess. I lick my lips and blink out a stray droplet. I’m fine with this. She can squirt me in the face all night if she wants.”

“Bring your mouth closer,” she says as her hand gently cradles the back of my head.

She doesn’t force me closer to her breast, she simply provides comfortable support for my head when I decide to follow her suggestion. My heart beats faster and faster. Her firm nipple awaits, small specks of milk clinging to it. I had only been curious about the taste earlier. Now, I crave it in a way that I haven’t craved anything for a long while.

I wrap my lips around her inviting nipple. I’m not completely sure what I’m doing, but I seem to figure it out pretty quickly. After a moment or two of awkward sucking that doesn’t seem to accomplish anything, I find the right combination of lip placement and suckling method. Success! Her warm milk starts filling my mouth. It’s everything I hoped it would be and more. Sugar. Almonds–hey, she was right about that. Honey? Caramel? Bourbon? I suspect my tastebuds are a little out of sorts from tonight’s liquor intake and vaping. I don't really know what I’m tasting, I only know that it’s the most succulent liquid I’ve ever ingested in my entire life.

I can hear myself moaning, though I don’t immediately recognize the noise of my own. It’s the sound of unadulterated pleasure, and a small part of myself wonders if I’ve ever experienced this level of titillation–pun absolutely intended–before.

“That’s a good girl,” Nico coos to me. I wouldn’t think that anything could make this moment any better than it is, and she utters those few simple words. I melt into her lap.

At some point, we finish. I’m unsure why, really. Did she motion for me to get up again, or did I choose to on my own? Suddenly, I’m sitting next to her on the couch, wiping the wetness from my mouth with my sleeve as she is tucking her massive breasts back into the bra so she can fasten it again.

“Was that good?” she asked.

“Quite.”

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Very much so.”

“I’ll give you my number,” she says. “Let’s get together for a meal sometime. My treat.”

I laugh, feeling my cheeks burning from the rush of embarrassment I’m feeling. I don’t have any regrets for what I did–I’m just shocked that I loved it as much as I did.

“Someone as lovely as you is wasted on a man like Luke,” I say.

“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “I like him.”

“I like him too. But he’s a fool if he’s not taking advantage of…this,” I say, waving my hands around her tightly bound chest.

“But you’ll take advantage of them, right?” she asks, a wry smile on her face.

“You bet.”

***

In the days that follow, I don’t tell Luke about what happened after the party. After everyone else left and it was just me and his new girlfriend. He doesn’t ask either, having no clue that there was even something to ask about.

I don’t set out to keep it a secret from him, but it feels a little more exciting when it’s something that’s just mine and Nico’s. I half expect Nico to tell him herself, but either she hasn’t, or she has and he doesn’t want to talk to me about it. I don’t think this is the case, however–Luke has no ability to keep anything close to his chest. He’d sweat profusely every time he saw me if he had to pretend like he didn’t know I was suckling his girlfriend’s tits.

Court does text me late in the next week, seeming to suddenly remember that Nico was still at the house with me after she and Daphne left. She doesn’t seem to suspect that anything strange happens. On the contrary, she imagines a one-on-one conversation would’ve been pretty awkward. I fib, saying that Nico left pretty soon after she did. There were no awkward conversations. Certainly no breast-suckling.

Before leaving my house, Nico had left me her number. I saved it in my phone as ‘Mommy.’ I’m not entirely sure why–maybe it was funny in the moment, while afflicted by highs from both vaping and her nipples. I keep scrolling through the contacts in my phone and looking at the name. Mommy. We haven’t actually texted each other yet, but just seeing the name, and thinking of the potential, thrills me.

Thursday night, as I slice some potatoes for dinner, two things happen in quick succession. The first is that Luke enters the kitchen, looking to be in a bummer of a mood.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. Puh-lease. Does he think that I don’t know him that well?

“We both know it’s not nothing,” I say.

“Nothing you’d care about,” he says.

“Try me.”

He shrugs. “Nico canceled on me tonight. I guess it’s not that big of a deal. But I was looking forward to seeing her tonight, you know?”

“Sure,” I say. “I get that. Did she say why she canceled?”

“Not really. We haven’t talked all that much this week. Like, I don’t think she’s blowing me off…she might just be a little busy or something. Just a bummer.”

I can tell that he’s uncomfortable talking about it to me. We’ve been seeing other people in our polyamorous adventure for years now, and he still tip toes around it sometimes. It’s like he’s afraid to show me that he has feelings for other people–despite the fact that that’s the whole point. I don’t push it.

“Sorry to hear that,” I say. “I’m sure the two of you will make plans soon.”

I kiss him on the cheek as a bonus peace offering. He graciously accepts and wanders off, likely in the direction of the TV.

Almost as soon as he leaves the kitchen, the second thing happens. I get a text message. From ‘Mommy.’

“I’m free tonight,” it says. “If you are.”

There’s a pan heating up on the stove, and I’ve cut some potatoes–I wouldn’t feel too bad about abandoning this meal if I had to. Afterall, I wouldn’t want to fill myself up before my meal with Nico.

“I could do tonight,” I text back.

I turn off the stove and hastily walk down to the den. Before I even clear the stairs, I hear the unmistakable sound of video game guns blasting.

“Hey, Luke?”

He pauses his game and looks back towards me. He’s still got that pathetic frown on his face. I almost feel bad having to do this to him. “Hey, I just got an invite from Sarah to go grab some dinner with her.”

I pick Sarah’s name, because she’s someone I don’t think Luke has ever had any sort of interaction with. She might as well be Hillary Clinton. Her and Luke will probably never meet and discuss this lie of mine.

“Oh,” he says. “Are you going?”

“Well, she’s just having some relationship troubles and…”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, nodding. “Do what you’ve got to do.”

“I didn’t make dinner.”

“Not a problem,” he says. “I’ll order pizza.” I’d almost be willing to bet he prefers pizza over the pork chops I would’ve been making.

“You sure you don’t mind?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Actually, I think this will be good for me. A pizza, some beers, some gaming. I’m good. Are you going to be out late?”

Probably. “It might run late. You know how Sarah likes to talk.”

He laughs, though I know he has no actual idea if Sarah likes to talk or not. And the truth is that Sarah doesn’t talk all that much. She’s pretty quiet.

“Have fun,” he says. “Be careful.”

Suddenly I’m driving to the address that was texted to me by ‘Mommy.’ I’m trying not to, but I keep catching myself speeding as I drive down the highway. I’m ecstatic. My panties are soaking wet.

The door to her apartment opens before I can even knock and Nico invites me inside. It’s a cute place–the sort of quaint apartment that I’d have killed for when I was a single woman. Everything here feels warm. The orange-ish lights. The thick carpet. The earth-toned colors. I just want to curl up here and take a nap.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks.

“Oh, probably,” I say, hoping my coyness is as cute as I think it is.

She smiles. “Typical baby. All you can think about is getting fed.”

I blush a little at being called a ‘baby.’ It’s an abundantly obvious word, given the nature of our connection, but it’s one that’s never occurred to me before. Even when I called her ‘Mommy’ in my phone. It makes me a little weak in the knees. There’s fluttering in my stomach. Yes, I’ll be your baby.

“Luke was a little sad that you bailed on him tonight,” I say.

She shrugs. “I feel a teensy bit bad about that, but not bad enough. He’ll get over it.”

“He’s like a puppy,” I say. “Next time you show him attention, he’ll have forgotten all about tonight.”

“Which is why I canceled my plans with him,” she says. “I was in a more…maternal mood tonight.”

“No Bobby?” I ask.

Nico shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”

“I wanted to see you too.”

We take a seat in her living room and make small talk for a few minutes. Nothing too deep, just chit-chat about the weather, traffic, and other mildly boring adult topics. I can sense–just as I’m sure she can–that there’s a tension just below the surface. We’re eager to get to the real reason we’re in the same place at the same time. Perhaps social protocol dictates that we have to get through a certain number of minutes of routine conversation before we break into the stranger stuff. Maybe each of us is waiting for the other to initiate what comes next.

“So,” she finally says, in a tone that seems distinct enough to suggest that she’s ready to move forward. “I assume you came hungry?”

“Quite,” I say, feeling my cheeks grow a little warmer.

“I had a little favor I wanted to ask you,” she says, a touch of uncertainty in her voice.

“Oh?”

“You can say ‘no’ if you want to, I won’t be offended. I was just thinking that if I’m doing a little something for you, you could maybe do a little something for me?”

I bite my bottom lip a little as I grin. I have no idea what she’s going to ask, but I like it already. I want to trade and barter deviance with her. I want to hear what sort of strange thing she’d ask of me in exchange for a taste of her breast milk. Does she want me to eat her pussy? Because I would totally do that.

“Of course,” I say. “I’m very curious.”

“The other night at your house? When we were sitting on the deck with your friends and I was telling them about breastfeeding Bobby–your friend had mentioned, er, diapers?”

I snort with delight. I’m still not sure where she’s going with this, but I must know. “I remember.”

“You know, Bobby doesn’t really seem into, like, ageplay. As it seems to be called. He doesn’t want to act like, or be treated like, a child. He simply wants to taste…milk. From a woman’s breast. Which I was fine with providing, and I’ve enjoyed it thus far. But the more I read about roleplaying and ‘ageplay,’ the more that I feel like–I dunno–my milk is wasted on him?”

“Ageplay,” I repeat, mostly just trying to get a feel for the word myself.

“Right,” she says. “Like, dressing up as a baby. Or being treated like one.”

“Cute,” I say.

“Right? And Bobby…maybe he’s a lost cause. I don’t think I’m going to get him to try many new things. For a guy with a desire to be breastfed, he’s not the most adventurous otherwise.”

I think I see where this is going? Maybe? “I can see where that’d be disappointing.”

“But then I was thinking about you. And…well, maybe I scratch your back and you scratch mine?”

“Tell me what you have in mind.”

“All the milk you can drink,” she says with a smile. “But you’d let me put you in a diaper.”

I laugh. I can’t help it–it just sort of bursts out of me. It’s not a malicious laugh, nor is it one of dismissal. It’s just so far beyond anything I have any familiarity with.

“Would a diaper even fit me?” I ask.

It’s her turn to laugh. It’s not quite condescending–it’s more an observation of how little I know about such things. “It’s not a literal baby diaper. It’s, well…I could show you.”

I’m tempted to tell her that it doesn’t matter. If she wanted me to dress up in a hot dog costume while breastfeeding me, I’d probably do that too. Still, I’m extraordinarily curious about these diapers of hers which, presumably, she already has on hand.

“I’d love to see them,” I say.

“Why don’t you come with me,” she says. “I’ll show you.”

We both quickly leap to our feet and I follow closely behind her as she saunters across the apartment to her bedroom. It’s not the most brisk of paces, though I presume this is purposeful. Every step fills me with just a little more excitement.

In her bedroom, she points to the bed. “Have a seat.”

“Of course,” I quickly reply.

“What if, instead, you said: ‘Yes, Mommy?’”

“Mm.”

“Go on,” she says. “Try it.”

“Yes, Mommy.” Hmm. I like that quite a bit.

She pulls some items out from a box in her closet. They weren’t concealed or hidden in any way–they were just sitting there, seemingly waiting on the day that they were needed.

“What do you think of this?” she says, handing me the first object.

It is a diaper. She was correct, this is not a baby diaper. It looks like one, yes–mostly pink in color with cartoonishly infantile shapes like baby bottles and pacifiers printed across it. If I was to see this in a picture, I might think it was for an actual baby. But I won’t make that mistake while it’s in my hands–it’s big. It’s thick. It almost feels too preposterous to even exist.

I summarize my feelings in response to her question: “It’s…big.”

She laughs. “It’s for big babies.”

“I’d wear this,” I say, my fingers pressing into the thick padding–still in awe of this surreal undergarment.

“Would you?”

“Nico, if it means I get to drink from your breast again, I’ll wear a diaper. I’ll crawl on the ground, talk like an infant, scribble and a coloring book, and wet my pants for you.”

“I hope you’re serious,” she says. “Because it’d make me very happy if you did all of those things.”

“Put me in a diaper and let me suckle from your nipple,” I say. “I’ll show you.”

She looks…flustered? No. Hot and bothered, probably. I bet I look similar to that. The bottom of my panties are so moist that I can feel them sticking to my skin.

“Lie down,” she says. “On your back.”

Hold on, I know what to say this time: “Yes, Mommy.”

“Mm,” she moans. “I’m so glad you came over. You’re a good little girl.”

Fuck. I do not expect that to hit as hard as it does. I’m thinking that she needs to put a diaper on me real soon, because I’m about to make my pants all kinds of wet.

“I think these clothes should go,” she says.

“All of them?”

“None of them seem appropriate for a baby, so…”

There’s a fluttering excitement in my chest. “Take them off.”

This, of course, was already her plan–my permission just sets it into motion. It starts small and almost innocently, with her plucking my shoes off the bottom of my feet before easing off my socks. There’s something strangely intimate about someone taking your shoes off for you. I’ve never considered it before, likely because nobody’s done it for me as an adult. It reminds me of childhood and being cared for. I could handle taking off my own shoes. My own pants. My own shirt. But she’s doing it for me, because she doesn’t want me to have to do it myself.

She works from my top down, pulling my sweater and the tank top underneath it off at once. She then gently slides her hands beneath my back, unfastening the clasp on my bra so that she can remove it from me. I’m excited for her to see my own breasts. They aren’t the plump milk jugs she’s currently carrying around, but I’ve always found mine to be the right amount of perky for their size.

“Ooh,” she coos, her fingertips dancing on the skin around my areolas. “Aren’t these lovely?”

“You think so?”

“I do. You wouldn’t mind if I tasted them, would you?”

My eyes widen and my face gets a little warmer. “You…you want to?”

“I have a bit of experience, at this point, with my nipples being suckled. But I don’t think I’ve ever got the experience of going through those motions myself.”

“Please,” I say. “I want to feel it too.”

Her feet still planted on the ground at the side of the bed, and her body arched over, she cups my left breast with both of her hands and brings her mouth to my nipple. Just the feeling of her touching me like this is enough to send intense shockwaves through my body. By the time I feel her wet lips and tongue make contact, I’m moaning uncontrollably as my toes flex back and forth.

I don’t know how long she’s there. Maybe ten seconds. A minute. 12 years. But I feel that suckling motion–that rhythm–and it’s unreal that I’ve never experienced pleasure like this in my life before.

“Hm,” she says, finally pulling herself away from my chest. “I rather like that.”

“It’s nice, right?”

“I can see why you and Bobby would want it so bad.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have any milk for you.”

She shrugs. “I wasn’t even thinking about that.”

She picks up where she left off, almost as if the last ten seconds–or 12 years–never happened. Her fingers slowly unbutton my jeans and lower my zipper. Then, with a hand on either side of my waistband, she lowers my jeans down to mid thigh. She stops for a moment, cracking a little smile as she gets a glimpse of my damp panties, before tugging my pants down the remaining length of my legs.

“Well now,” she finally says, two fingers gently stroking the wet spot in my light gray panties. “What is this?”

“See?” I say. “Wet.”

“I don’t think this is the same as a baby wetting themself.”

“You can never be too sure,” I say. “You should put me in a diaper, just to be safe.”

“You’re probably right,” she says.

Just as she had taken my pants, she takes my panties, easing them off my legs. But unlike my pants, which she had just tossed to the floor, she holds my panties in her hand, bringing them up to her face.

“Mm,” she moans, taking in their essence with a deep breath. “I may hold on to these.”

“Until we’re done?”

“Forever.”

Fuck. “They’re yours,” I say.

“What’s all this?” she says, her curious fingers once more playing with my skin–this time they’re darting through the trimmed patch of black hair near my pussy.

“Do you like it?”

“I want to shave it off,” she says. “Only seems right if you’re going to be in a diaper.”

“Would you?” I ask. “Please.” I then remember to add: “Mommy.”

“Let’s take care of this right now.” She steps away, heading into the bathroom and leaving me on my back, completely nude.

The faint scent of baby powder lingers in my nose. This doesn’t surprise me much–I’m sure Nico keeps some in her box of baby tricks that she’s pulled from her closet. No wait. I realize the scent is actually coming from my underarms. It hadn’t even occurred to me until now that I usually buy ‘Powder Fresh’ scented deodorant. Maybe I had been leaning in this direction a little longer than I thought I had.

Nico returns, almost as quickly as she had left, with a can of shaving cream in one hand and an orange disposable razor in the other. I instinctively part my legs a bit, giving her all the access she needs to complete this task.

“I’ve never done this before,” she says as she dispenses some white foam between my legs. “Well…not for anyone else.”

“I trust you.”

She’s slow and methodical with the razor, using it like an artist might use a brush to craft their masterpiece. If I was thrilled by someone simply taking my shoes off for me, I was not prepared for the feeling of someone else shaving my pubic area clean of hair. I felt myself getting so wet that I worried I was making a puddle on her duvet. Either I wasn’t, or she just didn’t care.

“All done,” she says, setting aside the razor.

I reach down between my legs to feel my bare skin.

“It might be a little tender right now,” she says.

It is, though I can feel how much smoother it is already. How the hell have I not known about this simple pleasure before? I’m never going to let this hair grow in ever again.

As I watch her unfold the giant diaper, I begin to see the strange course this evening has taken. I came expecting just to drink her breast milk again. And that hasn’t even happened yet, but I’ve experienced so many strange and wonderful things.

I don’t pay much attention to her diapering me. It’s almost more enjoyable to stare off into space while just experiencing the feelings and sound of her careful hands getting the fit just right. It’s trust–maybe the same sort of trust an infant has in its mother. Mommy knows best. My nose catches a stronger whiff of baby powder at one point, and this time I’m sure that it’s actual baby powder being applied to my newly smooth diaper area.

“There. You’re a baby,” she says. “Well, you were already a baby. But now you at least look like one.”

I do not care what I look like. I mean, yes, I love the idea of looking like the baby she wants me to be, but all I really want is her and I can barely focus on anything else. I’m looking up at her, practically salivating. No, scratch that. I can feel a trickle of literal drool escaping from the corner of my mouth. My desire for her milk has me drooling like an infant.

“Hmm,” she says, noticing this as well. “Perhaps I should get you a bib. I have one, of course.”

She shows me what she pulls from her naughty box of supplies–an oversized blue bib reading ‘Mommy’s baby boy.’

“I’ll have to get one that’s a little more specific for you,” she says. “I got this one hoping that Bobby would wear it. He…wasn’t interested.”

I find myself shaking my head, suddenly a little frustrated as I think about Luke. “My husband has literally never asked you about any of this? Made no attempt to do anything…kinky?”

“Not yet,” she says with a shrug.

“Seems like such a fucking waste. He’s missing all of this!”

“Admittedly, I find it a little refreshing,” she says. “He’s just a nice guy who doesn’t treat me like a fetish dispenser.”

I blush a little. I don’t think she’s talking about me when she says that, but it certainly feels like a path I could be headed down. But…fuck it. “I’m going to treat you like a fetish dispenser,” I say with a wry grin. “Dispense it right down my throat.”

“Oh, you have nothing to worry about,” she answers. “I’m going to use you as a little toy as well. My little baby doll.”

“Mm.”

“You like that?”

“Love that,” I answer. “But…” I motion towards her chest. “...I’m hungry.”

“Of course. Let’s get you fed, Baby.”

She sits at the head of the bed, her back propped up by the headboard. She beckons for me to come to her lap again. I don’t need much direction, I know exactly where I need to be so that I can comfortably latch onto her nipple.

“That’s a good girl,” she coos. “Someone has been excited about this, huh?”

I’d answer her, but that’d take precious milliseconds away from my efforts to get her milk into my mouth again. I reach up with my neck, mouth open, and I practically swallow the end of her voluptuous bosom.

I’m drinking. The warm milk eases into my mouth, slowly at first, and the satisfaction of finally tasting it–tasting her–again brings me a satisfying sense of peace.

The hypnotic routine of suckling from her tit slowly removes me from reality. I couldn’t tell you where I am, but I like it there. I’m not thinking about Luke. Or Bobby, whoever the hell that is. I’m not thinking about Daphne or Court and what their expressions would be if they could see me now–suckling from Nico while I wore an actual diaper like a baby. Okay, maybe I was thinking about that a little.

I was back on the deck again on a crisp fall night. My friends and I are talking. Nico is there. She tells me that it’s time to be fed. Without questioning it, I simply position myself under her breast as she lifts her shirt off. Neither of us seem to have any regard for the rest of my friends who are around. One of her hands helps keep my head comfortable as I suckle from her, while her other finds its way to my bottom where she gently strokes and squeezes as the crinkly padding of my diaper.

She is, in fact, actually doing that as I feed. She’s feeling my diaper. Pleasure from both ends. I moan, a sloppy gurgle of a noise.

“Go ahead,” she says. For a moment, I have no idea what she means by this. It comes to me quickly though–I wonder if she can read my thoughts. Because I’m thinking about what it would feel like to wet my diaper.

It’s an easy decision to make. So easy that it barely even feels like a decision. It just feels like the natural next step. There’s no effort made. No pushing or coaxing of my bladder. I simply begin to wet myself. Were this any other time in my life, I’d probably call this lack of agency an ‘accident.’

This is why I’m in diapers, I suppose.

I’m imagining myself on the deck again. My face latched onto Nico’s chest. My diaper filling with warm urine as my friends gather around to watch this spectacle. They’re whispering to each other and giggling. Yet nobody walks away. Nobody calls it disgusting. They love this and they don’t want to miss a single thing.

In this fantastical place, I grunt a little, pushing a filthy batch of my own poo into the back of the diaper.

Oh my god. Do I like that? Do I actually want to do that?

Her hand is still on my diaper. No. It’s in my diaper now. Her fingers are stroking my soaking wet pussy.

Which will come first? The powerful climax I feel myself on the verge of, or my belly getting full?

It seems to happen at about the same time. The pleasure of being full with her breast milk is rolled into the roiling orgasm she finally summons from me. I’m an absolutely sloppy mess as I squirm and moan in her arms–my diaper soaking wet and my face dripping with her milk.

Later, and I have no idea how much time has passed since she fed me, we sit together on her living room couch again. I’m wearing a shirt, but my pants are still on her bedroom floor. I’m sitting in my soaked diaper still. She’s offered to change me more than once, but I refuse. I want to sit in this a little longer.

“Do you think you’ll tell Luke about this?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “I’m…not in any rush.”

“You think he’d understand?”

I shrug. “No clue. Can’t say this has ever happened before.”

She laughs, resting her hand on my thigh. “Fair enough.”

“I’m a little worried,” I admit to her.

“Worried? Why?”

“Because I think I want more. Need more. I can see myself getting a little addicted.”

She shrugs and chuckles a little. “I don’t think that’s so bad. It sounds like you just found your place. In my lap. At my breast.”

I nod. That sounds about right.

There’s a thousand things I want to tell her. I want to describe the taste of her milk. The feeling of her nipple against my tongue. The feeling when a hand is on a wet diaper. I want to tell her about my little daydream and how, in it, I messed myself like an infant–without a second thought, like it was the easiest decision I had ever made.

“Something on your mind?” she asks.

There’s all the time in the world for those discussions. I lean into her shoulder as she wraps an arm around me.

“Nothing that can’t wait a little longer.”