My stepmother sat me down and explained what she did that morning; all the while I tried to ignore the raging hard on in my pants. It was definitely not helped by the small wet patch that surrounded one of her nipples — some of her milk had seeped from her shirt. She caught me staring at it and hastily excused herself upstairs to go change. I remained in my spot, pulled my cock from my shorts and jacked it furiously, imagining her soft tits and the milk leaking from it, shooting my cum into my hand.
That was the summer before I went away to college. I didn’t have any more incidents with my stepmother or her breast pumping after that, although I did spend more nights (and sometimes days) than I would have liked jacking off to the thought of her tits… I imagined myself squeezing the soft mounds in my hands, pinching and twirling the nipples between my fingers, pulling at her until the white milk came squirting…
I thought that once I’d gone off to college I would go back to normal and stop fantasizing about my stepmother’s tits. I screwed as many girls as I could, hoping that would fix it, and it did at first. But after a while I gave up, resigned to the fact that no girl at my university had tits that came close to what I had back home. They turned me on — I was a horny nineteen year old boy, anything would turn me on — but nothing got me hotter than the thought of Pamela’s tits.
~*~
I was sitting on the couch in my living room, shoving chips in my mouth and only half watching whatever crap was on the television. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was home for the summer. My dad and my stepmother had both gone out with friends earlier that morning, and I wouldn’t be going out until much later, so I was home alone. Bored out of my mind, I passed out on the couch.
I was woken up by a loud banging noise. It startled me, and I fell off of the couch, scrambling up and making my way to the door. Pamela was standing outside, waving at me enthusiastically. I unlocked the door and swung it open to let her inside.
“Pam, what are you doing? Why didn’t you just let yourself in?”
“Nails, silly!” she said, smiling at me brightly, raising her hands for me to look. I glanced down at her spread fingers and took note of a shiny pink gloss coating her nails, still noticeably wet.
“I can’t touch anything because I don’t want to mess them up,” she continued, bouncing over to the counter and sliding her purse gingerly off her arm. “What are you up to?” she asked, making her way out of the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing…” I mumbled. She didn’t seem too interested in an answer, as she was already on her way upstairs.
I made my way back to the sofa, resuming my horizontal position and closing my eyes.
A few minutes later I heard the sound of Pamela coming back down the stairs. I kept my eyes closed until I heard her stop at the entrance to the living room and call my name.
“Paul?”
Her voice was small and hesitant, completely opposite of the rather happy tone she had when she had bounced into the house. I peeked one of my eyes open to see what she wanted. She stood a few feet in front of me, holding a plastic bag by the palm of her hands so as not to mess up her nails. I opened my eyes and sat up to better see what was in the bag, and my eyes widened in shock when I realized what it was: Pamela’s breast pump.