The Breastfeeding Blues

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3-4 and Epilogue Available On

PLEASE NOTE: This is a preview of this short story. It is available for purchase in its entirety via


I got some mail from a woman I'll call Penny. That's not her name, in real life, but it's her name in this story. Penny told me, in this email, that she had become pregnant at an early age, but that a problem had developed after she gave birth that caused her emotional distress. Now most people have heard of postpartum depression, and there's plenty of media attention given to that. But there are other kinds of emotional problems too. This story is about one of those situations that the media doesn't talk about.

I tried to email Penny, to let her know I had written this, but the mail came back undeliverable. So I can only hope she's still out there, and reads this tribute. I'd like to thank her for sharing her story with me, and letting me share some of it with you.


Chapter One

Kids make mistakes. It's just what they do. And it doesn't matter if they have parents who hover over them and try to train them and teach them and all that stuff. They still make mistakes. And hopefully they learn from them.

Now, I think the vast majority of the population would agree with all that. But where things begin to break down, in terms of the agreement thing, is at what point kids should expect to get no more help from their parents. Actually, "help" isn't the right word. I'm not sure what the right word is, for that matter. All of us are full of opinions, and most of us don't mind sharing them. And that goes double for parents who have opinions about what their grown up kids are (or are not) doing. But, even before they're grown up, as you may have already noticed, when the kids get into their middle teens, they don't seem to recognize or revere the sage advice and opinions voiced by their parents. And they keep making mistakes.

So what is a parent to do?

Well, that vast majority out there, who I'm depending on so much to agree with me, would probably say "Gotta love 'em!" with a wry smile. That is probably the deepest, most meaningful comment (okay - paraphrase) to come from television, by the way. Just my opinion, but if everybody lived by that catch phrase, wouldn't it be a better world?

Except "vast majority," by definition, doesn't include everybody.

Which brings us to my brother, his wife, and their daughter, Penny.

At the time this story started, at least for me, Penny was seventeen. One of the mistakes she made was her choice in boyfriends. Not so unusual, really. She chose one who had graduated, and had his own place and a job and 'everything.'

That his "place" was a two room apartment with a mattress on the floor, a television, and various different sized trash bags to hold his clothes, didn't matter to her. She was in love. That his job involved the well known phrase "Would you like fries with that?" didn't bother her either. He was going to be a manager some day. And the fact that he had little more money than was necessary to keep him in cigarettes and beer didn't bother her either. Once she graduated, she'd go to work too and they'd have two incomes!

Another mistake she made was on her seventeenth birthday, when she gave herself the present of becoming a woman. She planned it all out. It was supposed to be a ceremony, with candles and ambiance and romance. What happened, as I later found out, was a rushed, insensitive deflowering, (on that mattress on the floor,) after which her boyfriend huffed, puffed and chuffed his balls into her fertile pussy, thoroughly impregnating her the very first time she had sex.

Another of the mistakes she made was trusting him when he said he'd stick beside her forever. He was eighteen and a man of the world ... right?

And he did stick with her until she had the baby, regularly lying on his back on that crushed mattress, while she serviced him with the pussy he'd knocked up. Then, when there was a crying baby in the apartment, and things started costing serious money, he decided it was more important to serve his country. He joined the Air Force and went off to save the world, never to be seen or heard from again. Well ... he was heard from once more after that. It was in a letter, explaining that the Air Force "frowned on" enlistees getting married before they were fully trained, and had been stationed somewhere for a while. And oh, so sorry, but he couldn't send her any money to keep paying the rent, because he had to buy uniforms and boots and a rifle and maybe even bullets for the rifle too. I saw the letter, and it made me want to go find America's newest airman and give him some real training ... in how to survive torture during interrogation by the enemy.

I found all this out when I went to her apartment one day, to see how she was doing. And I went to the apartment because, when I asked John, my brother and her father how she was doing, his answer was "I don't know. She has been shunned."

"Shunned," I repeated. "Since when are you Amish?"

"Shunning was practiced long before the Amish came along," he said. "We cannot accept her course of action, and she has separated herself from us by pursuing it."

"You mean getting pregnant," I said.

"Sex outside of marriage is forbidden," he said.

"As I recall, you used to tear up the pussy when you were growing up, long before you were married."

He frowned. "Those were my ignorant days. I have learned better. I now walk the straight and narrow."

"So you could fuck up when you were young, but your daughter isn't allowed to," I said.

"We told her the rules," he said. "There's no reason she couldn't learn from our mistakes."

"So you told her you fucked everything you could get the panties off of when you were her age," I said.

"Of course not. That wouldn't be a good example for her! We told her it was wrong, and disrespectful to our beliefs and values."

"As I recall, we got that same thing in Sunday School," I said.

"I have things to do. I don't know where or how she is, and I don't care. I don't think you should either."

"Well, apparently unlike you, I still love her," I said. I was not able to conceal the anger in my voice.

"If you loved her, you'd require her to live a pure life!" he shouted. "When she sees the true way, she can come back."

"Can she bring your grandchild with her?"

"Of course not. That boy is fruit of the wrong kind of tree, and will never soil our home with his presence."

"You are one fucked up piece of shit," I said.

His wife, Meredith had been listening, nodding in agreement with her husband.

"You are no longer welcome in this home either," she said, her voice shrill. "You curse, you drink and you traffic with sinners. I'll get a restraining order if I have to!"

I smiled. "Better put Jesus on that restraining order too. I hear he hangs out with the wrong kind of people all the time."

Then I left, to go find a girl who had been abandoned by her parents because she made some mistakes.

When I found the ratty apartment and knocked on the door, there was no answer. I heard what sounded like crying inside, so I just went in. I didn't know what to expect, but I was ready for violence if it was required. A career in Army law enforcement had taught me that violence, in the proper amounts, at the proper time, could actually result in peace. A lot of people don't believe that, but I'd seen it happen dozens of times.

But violence wasn't needed. Penny was just feeding the baby, and crying. She was so beaten down that she didn't even care that I saw her crying, or saw the way she was living. She had no pride left.

So I decided to stay a while and talk.

Penny had managed to keep paying the rent, by the simple expediency of taking the job her worthless boyfriend had left behind. There was a church in town that had a daycare center in it that was reserved for women in Penny's exact situation - extreme poverty. So Dilly (yes, shithead named his son, unfortunately) was well taken care of while she was at work. He was young enough that all he required was breast milk, which meant the only food she had to buy was for herself, but a nursing woman needs good nutrition to make good milk. Rent, utilities and food were taking every dime Penny could get her hands on. So that meant she had to be "innovative" at finding ways to do things that were less costly than most of us do. For example, she washed out her uniforms and other clothes in the bathtub when she took a bath.

After sitting and mostly listening for two hours, I suggested that maybe a short outing might be in order, maybe to go out to eat. I don't know whether it was because I had been non-judgmental while I was there, or whether just having someone to listen had revived her spirit a little or what, but suddenly she had found some of that lost pride.

"I can't go out looking like this," she said. "And Dilly's clothes are all dirty."

So I got her sizes, and Dilly's size, which was a number with a "T" added on to it for some reason, and told her to take a bath and give him one too, and be ready to get dolled up to go out. She argued, but not nearly hard enough to dent the resolve of an old soldier like me.

I went to Walmart and spent fifty or sixty bucks, a pittance for a 48 year old man who's getting an Army retirement check every month and has his own security business.

She yelled at me when I got back and spilled the loot out onto the table. I didn't much listen. I just pointed to the blouse and shorts I liked the best and said "Those will make you look hot." I didn't worry about Dilly. He'd be cute no matter what she put on him.

When Penny had been younger, she'd been plump. Like most American kids, she didn't get enough exercise, and she carried around some rolls of fat. Living hard had taken that off of her, though, and now she was slim, but curvy. I don't know if the fat she'd had on her breasts had just stayed because she was using them, or what, but they were very full and a prominent feature, overall. Her hips had stayed spread after she delivered Dilly too. So she had an actual hourglass figure. Above that was a very ordinary face, surrounded by brown hair that was currently a bit dried out and frizzy, because she couldn't afford to buy all those products that make hair shiny and silky and all that. I'm not saying she looked bad - not by any stretch of the imagination. But she didn't look exotic either. She just looked like a girl in her late teens who had a good body and was just a normal person. Except for Dilly, of course. Dilly told everyone that she'd spread her legs for some boy. Nobody suspected me of being Dilly's father. I looked exactly like what I was, her uncle, or maybe her father, taking his daughter and grandchild out to eat.

I took her to Sirloin Stockade, so she could choose from the buffet there. I like choices too, though I usually sample almost everything. I run five miles a day, so I get to eat what I want. That's why I run five miles a day. I don't have a girlfriend. I'm not into drugs or booze. So eating is about the only vice I have. And running five miles isn't such a terrible price to pay. Takes me forty-five minutes, which is about as fast as I feel like pushing things at my age. So paying for my vice costs me less than an hour a day. No big deal.

"Better than burgers?" I asked, as she dug into her plate.

"I don't eat where I work," she said. "I know what's in that stuff."

"Oh my," I said. "I eat there occasionally."

"You shouldn't," she said, completely serious. "The food bank has good food."

I smiled. "I don't think I'm eligible for the food bank."

She looked up at me. "They've never asked me a single question."

"Still," I said. "I think the food bank is a great idea, but it should be saved for people who really need it."

"Like me." Her dark eyes stared into mine. Dilly fidgeted in his high chair, but he was just making noises and we both ignored him.

"Like you," I agreed. What else could I do? I wasn't going to pretend she wasn't in dire straits.

She slumped.

"Lots of people have problems getting by," I said. "You're not alone."

She put her fork down like she'd lost her appetite.

"I feel alone," she said.

"That's because your parents are assholes," I said.

She blinked. She should have been a senior in high school, and kids that age aren't used to adults using that kind of language openly, I suppose.

"I, however, am not," I added, grinning. "Which is why you are not alone. Not any more."

She looked at me with what looked like careful eyes. It occurred to me that, as vulnerable as she'd been since shit-for-brains had gone off to save the world and avoid his responsibilities, men might have tried to exploit her.

"I don't want sex." I said. I admit it. I actually said that. I didn't do a lot of thinking before I said it, but I did afterwards, trust me.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, her eyes wide.

I've always believed that, with young people, we tend to treat them like they're too young to understand anything. That's not true, of course, and they know that. So I try to approach them on as much of an adult level as possible. If it's obvious I've gotten too adult, I moderate, but otherwise I try to treat them like anybody else. So in this case I just told her the truth.

"I was just thinking that other ... um ... men ... might have offered to ... um ... keep you company."

"For sex," she helpfully added.

"Yeah," I said.

"They do," she said, quite calmly. "Let's say it isn't unusual."

"Well, I didn't want you to think that's what I had in mind," I said.

"So those boners you got when I was fourteen, and sat on your lap and wiggled, didn't mean anything," she said, also with a completely straight face.

I blinked. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Of course," she said. "I was trying to give them to you."

"Really!" It was a comment, not a question.

"Of course," she said. "You were the only man I could tease and get away with it." She seemed to think. "Or maybe I knew you were safe. I didn't really think about it that way back then. Not consciously, but thinking back on it now, I sort of think that was what was in the back of my mind. I could tease you and not get in trouble ... in lots of ways."

"Well, you're welcome, then," I said.

Again, she gave me that very level, very adult, very contemplative stare, and then picked up her fork and started eating again. It was maybe five silent minutes later that she paused again.

"So what did you have in mind?" she asked.

I phrased my words a bit more carefully now. What I had in mind had just appeared there. I hadn't planned on it when I went to find her. I suspect I didn't want her to have to live like she was living.

"I was thinking that my business has gotten big enough that I should probably look for someone to take care of office stuff for me."

"Office stuff." Her voice held only a hint of question.

"All the equipment I install has a warranty, and it all has to be registered. There are always new things coming on the market, and I need to keep abreast of that kind of thing, which means reading magazines and surfing the net. There's billing, and accounts payable and tax forms and record keeping and all kinds of shit the government requires a small business to do. And if I do all that, I don't have time to meet with new clients and do installs and all that."

"So you need a secretary," she said.

"This person would be much more than a secretary," I said. "She would have to become well versed in the field of residential and commercial security, both concerns and solutions, as well as become proficient at jumping through all manner of legal and regulatory hoops."


"Well, I was thinking you could use a better job than the one you have. And I know you. And I trust you. And you're smart."

If I'd have left it there, I'd have probably been fine. But trust me to go the extra yard and trip over my own feet.

"And I could stand to look at you on a daily basis," I added, no longer thinking before I spoke.

I got that guarded look again.

"But not for sex!" I said, digging my foxhole even deeper.

You know how kids look at some "older" people and smirk and giggle about how "out of it" they are? The guarded look left, and I got that one instead. I used to get that look from criminals who thought they were oh, so much smarter than Barney Fife (that would be me) when I was poking around on the street, fishing for something to do. Usually, those kinds of people were really sorry they'd met me after being condescending for a while, because I wasn't nearly as stupid as they thought I was.

I also carried more bullets than Barney.

Anyway, when she gave me that look of pity and condescension, it pushed a button that hadn't been pushed in a while, and I went from emergency stop on my date with a train wreck, to full derailment.

"Of course you'd have to live with me in my house," I said.

I realized almost immediately that that was as stupid a thing to have said as it was possible to say. But instead of just admitting that, I tried to come up with some justification as to why that was a requirement.

"I mean my clone of the monitoring station is there, and I get calls at all hours of the night ... malfunctions and that sort of thing ... or maybe even real break-ins. And if I'm gone, I need somebody there to keep an eye on things ... update me on current status ... you know." It sounded really weak, even to me.

"In the middle of the night," she said, sounding a bit skeptical.

"That's when things happen," I said. "I mean that's when people are home in bed, and bad guys are trying to break into stuff."

"And you have to go catch them?" Now she sounded really skeptical.

"No," I scoffed. "The feeds all go to an automated collection center I contract with. They do a systems check, and if the system checks out, they call 911 and have the police respond."

"But you can monitor things at your house," she said.


"And this has nothing to do with the fact that I live in a rat-infested dump and can't afford a real nursing bra?"

"Nursing bra?" I was confused.

"I can feel that my milk is about to let down, and all I have is regular bras, so I can't put pads in them or I look enormous. So that means that pretty soon I'm going to leak and it will soak through my bra and make spots on my new T shirt."

I blinked. I looked at Dilly, and then back at her. "So just feed him. I mean you can pull the bra up ... right?"

She looked at me as if I had suggested we cook up the family pet for supper. "I can't nurse him in public!"

"Why not?" I asked. In my travels around the world I'd seen women nursing babies all over the place. Well, not in countries that were primarily Muslim. They stone women for things like that there. But most other places it happened regularly.

"They'd kick us out, for one thing," she said. "Besides, I don't have a towel to cover up with.

Our server just happened to be passing by and I ambushed her.

"Yes?" she said, putting on her perky face.

"My niece here needs to breastfeed her son. But she left her cover up towel at home by accident. Could you loan us one?

The look on her face would have been priceless, except that she looked a horrified.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

Perky face disappeared. She looked around. "I'm not sure," she said. "We used to have a policy against it, but then somebody sued us. And now I think I'm supposed to offer her a private place, except we don't really have a private place, except for the bathroom, and I wouldn't want to feed my baby in a bathroom ... you know? The last thing I heard is that if somebody is doing that, we're supposed to say someone complained, and ask them to leave, but give them their money back. But that might have changed. I can go ask if you want."

"Please do," I asked, smiling broadly.

Talk about a circus.

The manager came. First he suggested that the little boy could probably wait, since we were almost finished with our meal. I said I'd just gotten started, and planned on eating at least two more plates of food. Maybe three. My dander was up by now, but I wasn't showing that. I'm not sure who I was mad at, except that it wasn't Penny. I just thought the right answer should have been "Sure, have her feed the little tyke whenever he's hungry!"

Then they wanted to move us to a corner of the room, in a part of the place that could be curtained off for groups to eat there. Except that the curtain was out being cleaned. So this meathead thought that maybe three servers could stand in a line between Penny and the rest of the diners, shielding them from this apparently aberrant behavior. Never mind that mothers had been doing this for hundreds of thousands of years.

All this time Penny was trying to get me to go, saying things like "Uncle Bob, come on. I'm not that hungry anyway. Let's just go."

I thought about just getting our money back (pure spite, really) and leaving, but as I was broaching that subject I heard a sob and looked to see that what she had prophesied had come to pass. There were twin dark, round stains on her T shirt, right where the tips of her breasts were.

I immediately felt bad. I mean it was my fault we were still there, what with me being stubborn about her rights and all that. I was so busy standing up for her rights that I forgot to care how she felt about things. The three servers, all of whom were barely older than she was, fluttered, feeling bad for her too, but not knowing what to do. The manager just stared at her like an ass and licked his lips.

I told the manager I'd see him later, rather viciously, I admit, and we made our escape. I grabbed Dilly while Penny bawled with embarrassment. It wasn't until we were outside the place that she practically ripped him out of my hands, saying "He can cover me up, uncle Bob!"

Of course what with his mother all upset, Dilly got upset too, and started squalling like infants do. We got in the car and the only way she could shut him up was to pull up her T shirt and bra and give him something to put in his mouth. That actually worked perfectly, though how a baby can snuffle-cry while sucking milk from a nipple is beyond me. He did, though, for a few minutes anyway.

Of course I looked over at her.


Okay, maybe more than occasionally.

I couldn't see anything, really. I mean her nipple was firmly in his mouth, which was working away like he hadn't been fed in days. His little hands were all over her breast, pushing and sliding. I wondered what that flesh felt like, and then felt bad about that too.

"Sorry," I said.

She had stopped crying too. She was looking down at her son with that look that only a mother can give her own baby. She saw me looking, and said "Stop looking at me."

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"It's not your fault," she said, softly.

"Actually, if I hadn't gotten all fired up, we could have been out of there before you got embarrassed," I said.

"I know," she said. "But that's not what I'm talking about."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I can't tell you," she said.

I drove on. I was married once upon a time, long enough to learn that when a woman's acting like that, you just put one foot in front of the other until she gets over it. It hadn't saved the marriage, but it had avoided a lot of arguments.

I took her to my house, instead of hers. Being self-employed, the only responsibilities I had were interviews and sales calls I'd made appointments for, and I didn't have any of those for the rest of the day. That's one reason I had picked that day to go visit her. She had finished nursing Dilly, so I took him and the diaper bag, and told her to go clean up. I told her to get whichever one of my shirts she wanted to wear.

Dilly, like most babies, was full of shit ... but not for long. I had just finished changing his diaper when she came out of my bedroom, wearing one of my company shirts, which just has my logo on the left breast, about where the polo pony or alligator is on the fancy shirts. Her other shirt was rolled up and in her hand. I could tell immediately that her bra was rolled up in that shirt too, because the nipples that Dilly had been so recently lucky to engulf in his little mouth were prominently poking through the knit surface of the shirt.

Of course I looked at them. And of course she caught me looking.

"Sorry," I said, automatically.

"Don't be," she said. "You're allowed. You fought for me. You're my knight in shining armor."

She picked up her son and examined him, as if I might have scratched him or something. Then she wandered into what had, at one time, been the formal dining room. Now it was my monitoring room. The console was lit up with hundreds of lights, some red, some green, some flashing, some not. There was a binder lying open on the desk, and a table was heaped with boxes of new product, parts and invoices.

"Is this where I'd work?" she asked.

"Primarily," I said. I might have sounded surprised. I know I felt surprise. I was pretty sure that, after the debacle at the restaurant, any hopes of lifting her out of that trash heap were gone. She had been pretty embarrassed.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?" I wasn't sure she meant what it sounded like she meant.

"Okay. I'll come to work for you."

"Don't you want to know how much I'll pay you?" I asked.

She looked at me with those very adult eyes, in that very teenaged face.

"I don't think you'll try to screw me over." She looked back at the console. "Besides, with room and board included, I won't need all that much money."

I think I felt the worst for her at that moment.

She didn't even have any dreams left.

It took all of an hour to pack up everything she owned and put it in my truck. When I saw what she had, I stopped at Walmart on the way home.

"I'll keep Dilly company," I said. "You go in and get yourself some clothes and all the stuff women need to look pretty. Get stuff for the boy too." I handed her my credit card.

"I can't do that," she said, but it was weakly said.

"I don't want my employee looking like I don't pay her shit," I said.

"Liar." Those adult eyes were looking at me again. "None of your customers are going to see me."

"We don't know that," I said. "I may take you along when I give a sales pitch."


I snorted. "You told me what men want. You think I'm above using a little eye candy to sell a system?"

"Eye candy?" She looked dubious.

"Get nice things," I said. "Consider it an advance on your salary."

"What is my salary?" she asked.

"So now you want to know?" I laughed.

"I need to know how long it's going to take me to pay you back," she said, her voice dignified.

"I haven't decided yet," I said. "But whatever it is, it will cover this shopping trip. Just don't spend more than a thousand dollars." I ignored her look of shock and went on. "Get some dresses, too. I want to be able to take you wherever I go, and sometimes I get invited to parties. Don't worry about evening gowns. We won't get that kind of thing here."

"Evening gowns," she said, her voice flat.

"Fancy parties. Rich people." I figured that said it all. "Those don't happen all that often. Usually it's a garden party or Bar-B-Q but sooner or later everybody wants to show off that they have a security specialist on the payroll. Makes 'em feel like they've hit the big time."

She got out of the car, and then leaned back in to look at me.

"A thousand dollars? Really?"

"Not more than," I reminded her.

I realized her eyes weren't dark brown, like I'd thought. They were actually green, though so dark as to look brown sometimes. She had a peculiar look on her face.

"Liar," she said, staring right at me.

"What now?" I groaned.

"You do want sex," she said, still staring right into my eyes. She snorted. "A thousand dollars!"

I felt nervous, for some reason. I couldn't tell if she was messing with me or not.

"Okay," I said, slowly. "Two hundred and fifty dollars. Not a dollar more. And I'll charge you interest. That's it. Satisfied?"

That peculiar look was still there. "Not yet," she said.

But before I could ask her what she meant, she reached to tickle Dilly, told him to be a good boy for Uncle Bob, and then walked away from the car.

She returned to the car pushing one cart and pulling another. She handed me the card, along with the receipt, which was a foot long. She'd spent $465.74, but that included the crib that a stock boy was pushing on a dolly behind her.

One whole cart was filled with food. She mentioned, while passing me sacks to stow in the trunk, that she'd inspected my larder and found it to be empty. How full did a larder need to be? Admittedly, I hadn't thought about having more mouths to feed ... but I would have, eventually. And I ate out a lot, so all that was in my pantry were the things I liked to have around. Beef stew, ramen noodles, black olives, crackers to go with the cheese in the fridge. You know ... just regular food.

Penny, it turned out, liked to cook. I put on five pounds the first week she was there, but that's another story. As soon as I realized what was happening I added a mile to my daily run and that solved the problem. It was worth it.

Anyway, I moved her into the spare bedroom, assembled the crib, and tried to ignore it when she pulled up that shirt and bared a beautiful coral colored nipple to give it to Dilly. She didn't turn away from me when she did it, but she stood sideways, as if she were ignoring me. Still, I got the feeling she knew I watched as she got him going ... and that she didn't mind me watching.

She cooked for us that evening, and I got an idea of how delightful that was going to be.

Then after supper, she changed Dilly while I loaded the dishwasher. She gave him to me and said she was going to go take a shower. I held him on my lap while I channel-surfed, looking for something bright, with movement, so Dilly might be entertained. It was the first time I had stopped on the cartoon channel for longer than a few seconds. I was astonished by how quickly I was hooked.

When Penny came into the room, she was dressed in shorts and T shirt again. She was still braless, as announced by her nipples, but she also had a bra in her hands. She sat down in a chair off to one side of me and began fiddling with the bra. I heard the rip of a velcro type fastener and looked. It was a nursing bra and she was examining it. As she pulled the flap up on one side and I saw the hole in the tip of the bra cup, I felt my penis respond. Go figure. I'd seen her bare breast when she offered it to her son, and had only been interested. But now, seeing a garment that allowed a nipple to be uncovered, I was titillated.

I was still reflecting on that when she laid the bra beside her, reached for the hem of the shirt, and pulled it up and over her head, baring her entire upper body to me.

"That is a little uncalled for, don't you think?" I stammered.

"You've been staring at them all day long," she said, picking up the bra and looking at it closely. "You obviously want to see them. All men do."

"That doesn't mean you have to show them to me," I said, staring at two delightfully beautiful, full, round breasts, with stiff nipples. I got harder. Dilly and I had been playing "stand up and sit down" while I held his hands and helped him stand up. He liked that game. Now he was dancing on my semi-erect penis, and he chose that time to bounce on those springy knees babies have.

"I trust you," she said.

"Trust has nothing to do with it," I said. "You're beautiful. It's affecting me."

"See? I can still tease you!" she said, shooting me a quick grin. "After all these years!"

Then she arranged the bra to cover up what I had been so avidly admiring. She "popped the top" of each cup a couple of times. Then, sitting there in the bra, she opened a package of nursing pads, popped the top of the right side, and tucked one in to cover the nipple. I was actually interested in how this all worked, in one sense, and I tried to pay attention to that aspect of things, rather than the breasts and nipples. But then she opened the left side and started pinching the nipple, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. I saw her bite her lower lip and frown, but then she said "Hand him to me."

I did, and she presented the nipple to him. He latched on immediately and those cheeks started working while she looked down at him like she had before.

"Damn," she said softly.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said. "I just thought it might be different."

"Different how?" I asked.

"Never mind," she said.

And with that, she walked back into her bedroom to finish feeding him in private.

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