I am sixty-two and have the joy of being Smitten’s wife. Please read his story “Your Breasts Our Memories” before reading mine.
We were teenagers, wonderfully intoxicated by our love for each other. My future husband had just gotten his driver’s license, but he was only allowed to take me a few miles away to a country diner. As we drove away from my house, fully intending to go to the diner, there were a couple miles of awkward silence. 322f5df6c38dcb80a462eb517f146d51Then he turned and gazed at me and our eyes met: our destination had changed without a word being said. We shared smiles of nervous anticipation. He turned his gaze to the road again and I noticed that his cheeks were flushed and his breathing rapid as I became aware of my pounding heart and butterflies swarming in my stomach. Another mile went by in silence and he turned the car into a lane that surrounded a fully grown cornfield that was very concealing. He stopped the car and we stepped outside on a soft grassy patch. We looked up and down and all around, hesitating, unsure of what to do next. The sun was setting and amber rays reflected from feathery clouds and illuminated his strong stature and tender expression.
After a long moment of looking around, threading fingers, and shifting weight from one leg to the next, he lowered himself on his knees in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, his wanting expression inviting me to follow, and raised welcoming hands that I gently grasped and then sat down.
The wonderment of it was overtaking me. I began to relax and–feeling sexually excited and a little bit mischievous–I raised my arms over my shoulders and pretended to stretch. I checked for his response.
His eyes were wide with his gaze locked on my protruding breasts.
After a long moment I relaxed with my arms at my sides, hoping he had taken the bait. He leaned toward me and gently lowered me on my back. His hands were trembling as he raised my dress above my breasts, wrapped his arms around me, and had some difficulty unhooking my bra. My breasts were tingling, my nipples erect, as my breathing quickened and I felt my breasts bounce out of my bra. I closed my eyes and felt his hands working both breasts, then his warm moist lips surrounded my left nipple and gently sucked it into his mouth as his tongue worked from back to forward. I moaned in pure comforting pleasure and listened to him cooing as he rhythmically suckled. I became overwhelmed with an urge to give him a a gift from my stimulated breasts, as an instinctual biological urge took hold of me while my lover suckled, seemingly in a hypnotically comforting trance.
Being teenagers, and later a young married couple with raging hormones, this giving experience became overshadowed by sexual intercourse.
Forty-plus years later we began having longer and more tender foreplay, my husband spent a lot of time enjoying my nipples as I enjoyed the added attention, and I realized what that tremendous urge I’d experienced in the cornfield really was. Now as I sit in a chair fully naked, my husband sitting on the floor between my thighs, he locks his gaze on my nipples.
“Look at those nipples!” he says. “They are so beautiful.”
He kisses all around my right breast, then the left one, and lightly suckles the area of firmness around my right breast until he has taken the nipple fully into his mouth. His tongue rhythmically works from back to front and I feel it: My breast flutters with pleasurable ripples that descend to my nipple and I feel the release of my milk . . . my love into his mouth.
He moans, sucks rapidly, swallows loudly, and then slows to a relaxing rhythm and coos. His mouth is so warm, his suckling so comforting, and the love I feel for him causes me to embrace him deeper into my nipple and I moan with a joy and contentedness that only comes during intimate times like this.
I run my fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, and pat him on the back as my mind wanders.
Since we were teenagers he has been my strong warrior and protector, physically and emotionally, but when he bows to my breasts his armor and sword vanish, his soul is laid bare, and he becomes a totally different creature. He has always made me feel special, and even now at the age of sixty-two I have the healthy fruitful breasts of a young woman that he enjoys showing off in a modest way.
He unlatches from my right nipple, gazes upward at me with a sparkle in his eyes.
“Your milk is so sweet,” he says. “Like melted ice cream.”
Then he latches on to my left nipple with a hungry suckling that eventually slows to a rhythm that sends me into a trance…
Some time later, I don’t know how long, I feel his penis rising up my calf, hot and throbbing and powerful. He tightens his legs around my calf and begins thrusting, his excitement stirring my insides as I become wet for him and envision what will come next. Sometimes I want him gentle and other times, like now, I want him to take me like an animal.
I shove him backward, unlatching him from my nipple, and continue shoving him until he is on his back, still halfway hunching in the air and looking at me knowingly. I gaze for a minute at his hard probing dick. He is squirming, hunching over his belly, seeking his home, my place to fill with his love. Watching him in this exciting agony thrills me and pushes me over the edge.
“Take me!” I scream frantically, breathing rapidly, and get on my knees, arching my back with my head on my arms and lifting my butt for him. “I need to feel you in me, filling me with your cum. Take me! Take me!”
Suddenly I hear him jump to his knees, feel his hands firmly grasping my hips, the frantic probing of his hot dick between my buttocks, and then . . . the fullness and heat of his dick rhythmically sliding all the way in. He moans, I moan. He moans louder and begins thrusting faster, harder, and deeper, panting, begging, as I feel his head swelling and throbbing. Now he is lifting my butt in the air with his forceful thrusting, moaning, and gasping, almost as if he were in pain. He is totally out of control and I love seeing and feeling him on me in this wholesome kind of insanity that he reserves only for me.
My vagina tightens around him as orgasm is on its way, stronger than most times, and I shriek in rhythm to his ever quickening thrusting. Then he abruptly stops thrusting, the head of his dick swells, his whole dick spasms and jumps inside me, and he explodes hot cum, pumping, pumping, and pumping, as I tighten around him stimulating him for more and then I cum again with alternating shrieks and grunts.
As our breathing slows and we experience the warm afterglow, he gently moves his dick in and out as if lovingly massaging the place he calls home, and I feel the last gush of his gift and moan softly.
I sigh, relaxing, and think how happy–at the age of sixty-two–I am able to give my husband the wholesome gift of my breasts and still make him crazy for me.
We were teenagers, wonderfully intoxicated by our love for each other. My future husband had just gotten his driver’s license, but he was only allowed to take me a few miles away to a country diner. As we drove away from my house, fully intending to go to the diner, there were a couple miles of awkward silence. 322f5df6c38dcb80a462eb517f146d51Then he turned and gazed at me and our eyes met: our destination had changed without a word being said. We shared smiles of nervous anticipation. He turned his gaze to the road again and I noticed that his cheeks were flushed and his breathing rapid as I became aware of my pounding heart and butterflies swarming in my stomach. Another mile went by in silence and he turned the car into a lane that surrounded a fully grown cornfield that was very concealing. He stopped the car and we stepped outside on a soft grassy patch. We looked up and down and all around, hesitating, unsure of what to do next. The sun was setting and amber rays reflected from feathery clouds and illuminated his strong stature and tender expression.
After a long moment of looking around, threading fingers, and shifting weight from one leg to the next, he lowered himself on his knees in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, his wanting expression inviting me to follow, and raised welcoming hands that I gently grasped and then sat down.
The wonderment of it was overtaking me. I began to relax and–feeling sexually excited and a little bit mischievous–I raised my arms over my shoulders and pretended to stretch. I checked for his response.
His eyes were wide with his gaze locked on my protruding breasts.
After a long moment I relaxed with my arms at my sides, hoping he had taken the bait. He leaned toward me and gently lowered me on my back. His hands were trembling as he raised my dress above my breasts, wrapped his arms around me, and had some difficulty unhooking my bra. My breasts were tingling, my nipples erect, as my breathing quickened and I felt my breasts bounce out of my bra. I closed my eyes and felt his hands working both breasts, then his warm moist lips surrounded my left nipple and gently sucked it into his mouth as his tongue worked from back to forward. I moaned in pure comforting pleasure and listened to him cooing as he rhythmically suckled. I became overwhelmed with an urge to give him a a gift from my stimulated breasts, as an instinctual biological urge took hold of me while my lover suckled, seemingly in a hypnotically comforting trance.
Being teenagers, and later a young married couple with raging hormones, this giving experience became overshadowed by sexual intercourse.
Forty-plus years later we began having longer and more tender foreplay, my husband spent a lot of time enjoying my nipples as I enjoyed the added attention, and I realized what that tremendous urge I’d experienced in the cornfield really was. Now as I sit in a chair fully naked, my husband sitting on the floor between my thighs, he locks his gaze on my nipples.
“Look at those nipples!” he says. “They are so beautiful.”
He kisses all around my right breast, then the left one, and lightly suckles the area of firmness around my right breast until he has taken the nipple fully into his mouth. His tongue rhythmically works from back to front and I feel it: My breast flutters with pleasurable ripples that descend to my nipple and I feel the release of my milk . . . my love into his mouth.
He moans, sucks rapidly, swallows loudly, and then slows to a relaxing rhythm and coos. His mouth is so warm, his suckling so comforting, and the love I feel for him causes me to embrace him deeper into my nipple and I moan with a joy and contentedness that only comes during intimate times like this.
I run my fingers through his hair, kiss his forehead, and pat him on the back as my mind wanders.
Since we were teenagers he has been my strong warrior and protector, physically and emotionally, but when he bows to my breasts his armor and sword vanish, his soul is laid bare, and he becomes a totally different creature. He has always made me feel special, and even now at the age of sixty-two I have the healthy fruitful breasts of a young woman that he enjoys showing off in a modest way.
He unlatches from my right nipple, gazes upward at me with a sparkle in his eyes.
“Your milk is so sweet,” he says. “Like melted ice cream.”
Then he latches on to my left nipple with a hungry suckling that eventually slows to a rhythm that sends me into a trance…
Some time later, I don’t know how long, I feel his penis rising up my calf, hot and throbbing and powerful. He tightens his legs around my calf and begins thrusting, his excitement stirring my insides as I become wet for him and envision what will come next. Sometimes I want him gentle and other times, like now, I want him to take me like an animal.
I shove him backward, unlatching him from my nipple, and continue shoving him until he is on his back, still halfway hunching in the air and looking at me knowingly. I gaze for a minute at his hard probing dick. He is squirming, hunching over his belly, seeking his home, my place to fill with his love. Watching him in this exciting agony thrills me and pushes me over the edge.
“Take me!” I scream frantically, breathing rapidly, and get on my knees, arching my back with my head on my arms and lifting my butt for him. “I need to feel you in me, filling me with your cum. Take me! Take me!”
Suddenly I hear him jump to his knees, feel his hands firmly grasping my hips, the frantic probing of his hot dick between my buttocks, and then . . . the fullness and heat of his dick rhythmically sliding all the way in. He moans, I moan. He moans louder and begins thrusting faster, harder, and deeper, panting, begging, as I feel his head swelling and throbbing. Now he is lifting my butt in the air with his forceful thrusting, moaning, and gasping, almost as if he were in pain. He is totally out of control and I love seeing and feeling him on me in this wholesome kind of insanity that he reserves only for me.
My vagina tightens around him as orgasm is on its way, stronger than most times, and I shriek in rhythm to his ever quickening thrusting. Then he abruptly stops thrusting, the head of his dick swells, his whole dick spasms and jumps inside me, and he explodes hot cum, pumping, pumping, and pumping, as I tighten around him stimulating him for more and then I cum again with alternating shrieks and grunts.
As our breathing slows and we experience the warm afterglow, he gently moves his dick in and out as if lovingly massaging the place he calls home, and I feel the last gush of his gift and moan softly.
I sigh, relaxing, and think how happy–at the age of sixty-two–I am able to give my husband the wholesome gift of my breasts and still make him crazy for me.
