I sat up in my bed rubbing the cobwebs from my eyes. The clock on the nightstand read 12:24 p.m. I took the day off on account of a virulent stomach virus I caught at the office the other day. After a quick shower to wake me up, I went downstairs to make myself a light breakfast. My wife, Dorthea, had already left for work a few hours before, so I had the whole house to myself.
As I sat there chewing my toast thinking about what I would do on my day off, the doorbell suddenly rang. I shuffled over to the door making out the shoulder of the mail carrier through the glass paneling. He had a package that needed my signature. I signed for it and thanked him. The label on the front had my name typed on it but no return address. I laid the package on a small table where we kept our keys and mail and returned to the kitchen to finish my breakfast.
Since I didn't have to work today, I thought it only fair to clean up the house a bit. That way my wife wouldn't come home to a pigsty. I began in the kitchen and worked my way up to the bedrooms. We had three in total: one for me and my wife, the second for guests and relatives, and the third, which used to be our son's room, was now converted into a home office, where we kept our computer, printer, and fax machine.
Dusting around in the office suddenly triggered a flood of memories about Paul, our son. We—that is, Paul and I, had an estranged relationship ever since I could remember. He always saw me as competition where it concerned his mother's affections. Now don't get me wrong here, I don't want you to think that I'm suggesting Paul is a mama's boy. Because I'm not. However, let's just say there is something in that boy which isn't quite right.
I suppose I'd better tell you what I mean so you can judge for yourselves...
It all began when Paul was five-years-old. Dorthea and I were getting settled under the covers one night when she began telling me about her day and the special request Paul had made of her. Turning over on my side, I propped my head onto my left hand and waited for her to continue which was customary for me to do when my wife wanted my undivided attention.
Dorthea went on to tell me that she had just settled down to watch her favorite soap in the afternoon—I think it was called Blazing Passions or something funny like that—when Paul stormed in and blurted out he wanted some milk. Hmm ... so what's so strange about a boy wanting some milk? At least that's what I thought.
She went on to describe how our son walked right up to her, pointed his finger at her luscious rack, and said he wanted some milk. I widened my eyes in disbelief, but mostly for her benefit. In reality, though, this didn't shock me as much as it should have. For one thing, I knew a few guys in the neighborhood who would've paid a tidy sum just to nurse on my wife's busty tits. She had 42E breasts capped with pink quarter inch nipples. Those babies were constantly bouncing all over the place. She knew the effect they had on men so it stands to reason a five-year-old son would notice them too.
I told Dorthea I would have a talk with him when I got back from work the next day. She thanked me and we snuggled falling asleep in each other's arms. Days passed and the talk I was supposed to have with Paul totally slipped my mind with all the extra work I had to do at the office. Then the weekend came and I went out on one of my Saturday morning jogs. I had to cut the run short because of a sprained hamstring. When I reached the front door, I heard a loud yelp from inside.
I pushed the door open and limped into the hallway. I heard my wife disciplining Paul for something or other as I made my way to the entrance of the living room. I peeked around the corner of the archway to see Paul being held at arms length by my wife as he struggled in vain to move toward her. He was thrusting his head forward so he could latch on to her exposed nipple, which somehow escaped the confines of her robe. Her big alabaster tit jiggled as she labored to keep Paul away from her breast.
In all the commotion, they didn't hear me come in. When it appeared to Paul that she wasn't going to allow him to suckle her breast, he threw a tantrum. He repeatedly stomped his right foot, whining how he wanted her milk. Dorthea, however, held her ground explaining to him that she no longer had any more milk. "Sweetie, mommy can't give you milk. It's all gone. You drank it all up when you were just a baby. I can't make any more milk unless I have another baby. Do you understand?" He calmed down some but I could tell he didn't buy it.
Paul must've realized he wasn't going to convince his mother, so he ceased his struggles and pouted giving her his best sad eyes. He often used this tactic when he wanted something he couldn't have. When he saw it wasn't going to work this time, Paul made like he was about to turn around and leave. Dorthea thought as much, too, which is why she let her guard down for a moment—a moment that cost her. Paul immediately rushed into her soft, creamy bosom and latched on to her rose-colored nipple, greedily sucking her teat. Dorthea gasped from the sudden attack on her sensitive nipple. I knew from experience how sensitive they could be. Paul hefted her heavy breast with his tiny hands and devoured as much of her tit flesh as a five-year-old could do. He made loud slurping sounds as he tried to feed his hunger.
"Paul! No sweetie" she gently said, "You can't suck mommies' tit. It's not right." Paul didn't listen. If anything, he increased his sucking power while moving his right arm around her waist. My wife attempted to push him off of her breast but when he was about to lose the connection to her nipple, he bit down to prevent her from disengaging his mouth. She pleaded with him to stop. But after a while, Dorthea gave up the struggle and let him have his way with her mammary.
Paul hungrily nursed like a thirsty calf. Her huge tit dwarfed his little hand as his fingers sunk into her spongy skin with blue veins flaring out from her nipple. She brushed her fingers through his hair petting and cooing him. Paul moved up to sit on her lap, never letting go of her swollen pap. She gently rocked him and began singing a lullaby. His eyes started to droop. After about five minutes of nursing, he eventually released her teat and snuggled up against her doughy orbs, falling into a deep slumber. I thought this was a good time to make an appearance. When I limped into the room, my wife looked up and shook her head. I could see the disappointment in her face. All I could do was shrug my shoulders.
I reached down and gently scooped up Paul into my arms and carried him to his room. But not before I looked over my shoulder to see Dorthea putting her right breast back into her gown. I felt a stirring in my pants. Her tits always had that effect on me. As I walked away, I made a mental note to have some of that tonight.
When Paul got up an hour later, I finally sat down with him and had that talk with him: "Paul, what you did to mommy today was a bad thing. Little boys aren't supposed to do those things to their mommies." His lower lip began to quiver and his eyes became wet. I lowered my voice because I didn't want him to cry. "Paul, when mommy says NO to you, you have to stop. Do you understand?" He shook his head up and down. He probably thought I was going to spank him. I should've but then I didn't think it was necessary in this case.
"Son, when you were just a baby, your mother used to feed you her milk because it was what you needed to grow healthy and strong. But that was four years ago. And now, you're a big boy. Big boys don't need mother's milk. They need regular food." He frowned as he sat there thinking about what I just said. I thought I'd cut the talk there, seeing how the attention span of a five-year-old is almost nil. I left his room in search of Dorthea to see if I could be forgiven and to get some suckling time of my own.
The incident was thankfully forgotten by my wife but, unfortunately, not by Paul. Whatever I did or said during that small talk of ours seemed to have changed how Paul viewed our father-son relationship. He was okay with his mother but not with me. Yeah, we did stuff together like play ball or go camping. But deep down inside, I knew he had placed a barrier between us. I didn't worry about it at the time because I thought it was just a phase he was going through, and one he would grow out of eventually.
Well, as sad as it is to say, Paul never did grow out of his phase of disliking me. If you noticed, I didn't use the word "hate" in describing his feelings toward me because that emotion would come when Paul got older. I think there were some deep jealousy issues at work here and a possible Oedipus complex. Admittedly, I'm no shrink. However, being a father has given me a unique insight into the mind of my own son.
The status quo, unfortunately, remained the same when Paul reached puberty at twelve. He developed a newfound interest in his mother. This time it had nothing to do with her breasts. Instead, he became fascinated with another of his mother's body parts: her round, plump ass! You see, if I didn't mention it before, I will now; Dorthea is one of those rare women who is lucky enough to have been blessed by the gene-gods. She is pure "T & A," unlike most other women who are either top or bottom heavy. Men see their chiropractors for an adjustment after straining to get a look at her goods. I consider myself very fortunate to have a caught a woman who's ample in both departments.
.... There is more of this story ...