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Puppies are always good for breaking the ice – and if you bring them up right, grown dogs aren’t bad…
I’d been walking them in the park, well I walk, they run But they’d finally slowed down a bit and I was leading them back towards the gate. There was a group sitting on the grass and the dogs ran over.
Now the dogs themselves are fine, not an ounce of malice in them at all, but for those who don’t like dogs, their energy and enthusiasm doesn’t go down well. Small kids are the most risky: my dogs aren’t that big, but kids come even smaller – and there were two in this group: the girl, I later discovered, was five and the other had just had his first birthday. I upped my pace from a gentle shamble to a brisk walk, ready to call them off if their attentions weren’t welcome.
This time there was no problem: the kids’ mum called the dogs and started to stroke them, calling her daughter to come and join in. Even when the baby got a big lick on his face, that only led to laughter.
“Come and join us. Have a beer. What are the dogs’ called?”
“Sure. Thanks. Hawk and Trap.” (It would have been BJ, but try yelling that across the park!)
“Ah, a MASH fan!”
I admitted guilt and sank cross legged onto the grass, pulled out the trusty Leatherman and opened the bottle pushed into my hand.
We sat and talked. The daughter put both dogs on their leads and got pulled round the field; loving every minute.
Introductions revealed that the mum was called Cathy, her daughter was Jane, her baby was Gazza (yeah, after the footballer), the other girl was Vicky, and their friend with the dreadlocks was Ivan (search me!). Cathy’s husband was out with his mates and she was out with hers.
It transpired that the case of Stella was following an earlier one of Bud – and they kept flowing.
Ivan and Vicky were playing while we talked: he’d scissored his legs around her, rolled her back onto the grass and started kissing her. The others kept talking and next time I looked, he was behind her, reaching round with both hands to grab her tits…
Gazza got hungry, so Cathy lifted her top, applied baby to teat, and carried on talking. That created the next topic of conversation. As Cathy pointed out, no one could actually see anything, but there was quite a debate. One of the others (there were three or four others clustered round a bench about 30 yards away) had come over. She, Malawi, or something like that that I didn’t quite catch, didn’t like dogs, so she was standing stiffly to one side, and she was against public breast feeding. That lead into other things: that Cathy had stopped both smoking and drinking as soon as she’d found she was pregnant and hadn’t started again until Gazza was 9 months old.
But now she was: drinking her own beer and smoking my fags – theirs Escort Bayan had run out.
Time passed and even though I was older than anyone else there by thirty years, I got along with them fine. The sun was starting to go behind the trees though and a move was planned: to Malawi’s house. Cathy was moaning about having to push Gazza in his buggy all the way up the hill, so without thinking about it I said that if she’d come to mine (all of 50 yards along the flat), I’d only had a couple of bottles, so I’d give her and her kids a lift.
That was what happened. I left the dogs at home and took the opportunity to pick up some more smokes, then off we went.
The party itself was OK, but I was starting to feel my age – not quite in tune – when Cathy said she had to get home to put the kids to bed. I grabbed the opportunity to leave and offered my transport again – and a few minutes later I found myself helping to put Jane and Gazza to bed.
As kids do after a day out in the fresh air and sun, they were asleep almost as soon as their heads touched their pillows and Cathy and I were out on the landing, pulling the door closed.
“Thanks for that,” said Cathy, “and I’m sorry if I embarrassed you earlier on – dragging my saggy tits out in front of you.”
“No problem, that didn’t embarrass me. Nursing mums are sexy! If I looked uncomfortable, that was just jealousy!”
“Jealousy? How’d you mean…?”
“I wanted to be sucking on the other one. All men like sucking a tit, but the opportunity to do it when there’s milk there is very rare. It’s only happened twice to me, that I can remember – when my own kids were born. And my wife usually didn’t have enough milk for me to do it much even then.”
I suddenly realised what I was saying. The atmosphere amongst these twenty-odd year olds had been so laid back that it just came out before I thought, but now I saw her cheeks turn pink.
“Oops,” I said. “My turn to say sorry. I’m embarrassing you now.”
“Not exactly. We seem to have something in common. ..” Cathy cleared her throat. “Do you mean that you’d actually like… to…?”
“Well, yes.” I hesitated, then, “I’ll probably fantasise about that for weeks.”
Cathy was quiet for a moment.
“Really? You’ll be thinking about me?”
I took a deep breath, then admitted, “Yes.”
There was another pause that seemed to go on for a long, long time, then Cathy took a deep breath, looked hard at me, and, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “Maybe it needn’t just be a fantasy…”
Her cheeks were an even deeper pink and her breathing didn’t seem to be quite under control. Mind you, neither was mine.
“That would be wonderful. I really would love to..”
Cathy slowly crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her top and Bayan Escort slowly pulled it up over her breasts.
They were beautiful; just as I like them, not over large, just a comfortable handful. Technically speaking, her description of, “saggy” did have some truth in it – but not much. I thought they were perfect.
Half a million thoughts raced through my head. Fidelity and the risk of infection were just two of them. But the menopause had left my wife with no sex drive at all – I realised that it wasn’t just decades since I’d tasted her milk, it was years since we’d had any sex at all. And if Cathy’s health advice meant that she was still breast feeding her baby when he was over a year old…
I took the couple of paces needed to go to her and lowered myself to my knees (I must have been at least a foot taller than her), leant forwards, put my lips gently to her nipple – and sucked.
The taste was divine. It’s impossible to describe. Lots of the flavour is psychological – experienced in the mind rather than just on the tongue, but it is ambrosia: food for the gods!
I swallowed the first mouthful, but the next I kept in my mouth while I stood up again and kissed her; opening my lips to share the taste.
Her lips opened to mine and Cathy drank her own milk from my mouth.
My hands were on her waist and I sank again to my knees, kissing her breasts and taking tiny sips of her milk. My hands stroked upwards, under her top to her armpits.
“Oh yes!” I said, “I hate under-arm stubble.” Cathy’s armpits had a healthy growth of hair, not the plucked chicken skin that’s too often under there. I looked up at Cathy’s face. Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was slightly open. The tip of her tongue slid out and licked her lips.
My right hand caressed down her back and I slid my fingers under the waist band of her jeans. “You know I’m not going to stop until you tell me to?”
Her head rocked slowly forward and her eyes opened to look into mine. “What makes you think I want you to stop?”
“What about your husband?”
“He won’t be home for hours yet. Not until after the pubs shut.”
She took my hand and led me along the landing, opening another door and pulling me inside.
“We can be comfy in here…”
I pulled her back into my arms and kissed her again. Her tongue reached out and played with mine. Her top had fallen back down, but my hands lifted it up and we broke for just long enough for me to lift it over her head.
As we kissed, my hands played in her hair, stroked down her back, then up again to her breasts. I could feel dampness on my thumbs as they leaked drops of milk. I kept my lips and tongue on hers, but reached between us to undo the buttons and shrugged out of my shirt.
We hugged Escort close again. I could feel her breasts pushed against me – and the moisture leaking from her nipples. Cathy squirmed against me, spreading the moisture, making our skin slick and slippery.
My fingers slid down under the waist of her jeans and inside the elastic beneath. Cathy’s reached between us, unfastened her button and zip, then turned to mine.
Aren’t shoes – or trainers – and socks a passion-killer? Not to mention bum-bag straps.
But we managed. And I kept track of my bum-bag: it had condoms in it!
Her crotch was as natural as her armpits: a luxuriant bush spread in a triangle from her crotch.
Then Cathy was on her back on the bed and I was between her wide open legs.
Her snatch was already wet, but my saliva added more. My tongue searched out her clit while my fingers reached inside and beckoned her on. My left arm reached up and my hand wondered between armpit and breasts.
“Come for me,” I wanted to say, but my lips and tongue were busy. Her body answered: the blush that had touched her cheeks before rushed down in a wave almost to her hips. All she could say was “Nngh!” but her hips thrust towards me. I didn’t know whether it was what I was doing, or simply the novelty of a new man, but whatever it was, Cathy was away with the fairies.
And in a mounting crescendo, “Yes! Yess! Yesss!” and Cathy’s thighs clamped around my head.
I waited for the pressure to diminish, then I worked my fingers again, against that thickened patch inside her. Another spasm, then, my other hand touching her anus to feel it clench, yet again.
We waited a moment, then I reached for my bum-bag and unzipped the back compartment. There were the condoms.
Cathy seemed to draw breath, then took the packet from me. She rolled me onto my back, grinned, and took me briefly into her mouth.
I’d slackened a little while taking care of her, but her lips and tongue, swirling against me, brought me back to my full extension.
She rolled the condom onto me, took my prick in her hand, and lowered herself onto me.
For a few strokes (ten, a dozen?) that was enough, then I forced my legs from between hers, and grabbed her between mine. My hands clenched on her bum and pulled her onto me. My hips went into hyper-drive and I thrust and thrust and thrust.
I still don’t know whether that was her or me.
Or whether my spasm triggered hers or hers triggered mine.
As we regained our breath, I kept my hold on her bum, keeping us close and keeping my prick inside her, but she lifted up enough to lick the milk that we’d squeezed from her breasts off my chest and offered me her mouth.
“You can come again,” Cathy said with a wicked grin.
“You already have,” I laughed back at her.
We exchanged phone numbers and today I got a call. Her husband is going out on the town with his mates again tomorrow.
And Cathy plans to keep breast feeding Gazza for several more months…
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