“Um, if you want, mom,” I said. “That’d be fine.”
She didn’t wait for anything, pulling the bowl of cereal close to her. She sort of looked at me questioningly, and only then did I realize she might want me to look away. Yet she took the initiative, turning to the other side of the kitchen so I could not see. Still, though, I could: Her large tits were so big that their width out-measured her waist , and her profile could not mask how busty she was.
My eyes, at this point, seemed to be acting on their own. My mother had on tight jeans like the girls wore at school, perfectly showing off her shapely ass, nearly causing the denim to burst at the seam; she bent over and I could see her hands working her breast, pumping and squeezing, the sloshing noise of the milk splashing into the bowl.
Before I knew it, against my own will, I was fully erect. Usually a plus, my penis was larger than normal — eight inches, not that I was particularly proud of it, if anything girls in school just couldn’t take it all — but it was a negative now because I certainly could not mask the sight.
“Mom,” I said under my breath. “You wouldn’t mind bringing the bowl to me, would you?”
It must have looked so odd, me turned around, asking my mom over my shoulder to bring me my cereal, but I had no other option.
“Of course, honey.”
I thought — prayed, in fact — that she might just hand the bowl over my shoulder and let me walk away. Yet she came right in front of me, so close that the tent in my pants was like a trip-wire against her thigh, catching her when she least expected it.
“Oh!” she said in shock. “Honey—”
“Thanks, mom,” I said abruptly, cutting her off. I looked down and walked off before she could say another word to my face.
“I hope you like it!” she yelled down the hallway.
Sitting in my room, thinking about what happened, I couldn’t shake the shame. Yet I also couldn’t shake the taste of the cereal, sweet and creamy, the result of the best milk I’d ever had in my life. Perhaps my brain still held on to the subconscious memory of her feeding me so long ago, because no matter how jumbled and confused my thoughts were as to the encounter that had just taken place, one thought overruled them all – I needed another taste of her milk.
***
There was something about the image, my mom cradling a mouth to her breast, that began to enter my psyche more and more often. Whenever she came back home I watched her around the house, her breasts jiggling about, far more than they used to, filled with milk and, I know knew, always producing more.
Often just the sight of her bending over to clean, or readjusting her top, got me worked up enough to go to my room and take care of the issue. I couldn’t believe I could feel such a way about my own mother, but when I thought about it, the whole thing made perfect sense — I was simply attracted to the same nutrients, the same source of food — the milk, and therefore my mom who created it — that had kept me alive so many years ago. It wasn’t wrong. It was instinctual.