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“It’s alright, dear,” Mrs. Price crooned at you in her thick accent, “Raised one all by me-self, and he turned out just fine. We’re going to have the best time. Don’t you worry.”
You reluctantly - very reluctantly - handed over your gorgeous little bundle to John’s mum and felt your chest clench as you listened to her needy, croaking cries. John had planned to take you out once you were feeling up to it, and after being trapped at home for two months with just you and your demanding baby, you decided it was time for a break. You were so in love with her but, as the weeks went on and you were becoming more and more of your capable self again, John Price kept reminding you that you loved him, too.
He started to touch you almost as soon as you brought her home, nothing sexual, just little chaste kisses and back rubs here and there. Then, he began to linger. At first, it was a deeper kiss, and then he moved to your neck. He didn’t stay there long enough for you to protest, just long enough to get a taste. When he moved past you in the kitchen, washing bottles, doing dishes - it didn’t matter - he would run a wide, flat palm across your ass and squeeze, just once, a nice big handful.
It was driving you wild, and now that you were all healed up, your body was encouraging you to get back in the game. When he held your daughter, your heart would skip a beat, but now, so did your pussy, clenching around itself, missing that familiar fullness only he could provide.
So, to say you had dressed up for the occasion would have been an understatement. You had one - exactly one - cocktail dress that still fit, and even then, you couldn’t wear a bra with it. Improvising, you put a few nursing pads in each cup of the dress to hold off any leaks during dinner, vowing to pump when you got back to the hotel. You eyed your stilettos and sighed, maybe another time. You opted for a decently sexy wedge and wished it was a slipper instead. But, you wanted him to look at you like he always did, hungry and impatient.
Your breasts were bursting out of the top, squished to their absolute (socially-acceptable) maximum, and you drug out your makeup bag to finish the job. A few brushstrokes later and there she was, the date-night you, ready for action.
Right? You were ready…right? Doubt edged in like a bad taste, bitter and salty with insecurity. You had changed, drastically, and now you were expecting yourself to get back in the saddle like you hadn’t been thrown. Your belly was covered in stretch marks and loose skin, your hip bones were spread wide, and a whole laundry list of other changes your body needed to go through to create another human being. You were proud that you had gone through it, but your experiences were evident.
Just as you had resolved to leave the bathroom vanity and stop wallowing, John poked his head around the door, and made a hungry noise with his mouth,
“Mm, bloody fuckin’ hell, missus. Gorgeous. Tryin’ to kill me?”
You smiled up at him, basking in his praise,
“You clean up pretty nice yourself, John. Are you ready to go?”
“C’mon. I’m about to come outta my skin. Let’s get out of here,” he held out a hand and helped you up from the vanity, his eyes roaming up and down your form as you walked past him, humming his approval.
He’d booked tables at Panoramic 34 that overlooked the River Mersey, and the view from the top was incredible. John had secured one of the best tables, and as the sun set across the water, you watched the orange and pink glow wash over his skin, turning him pink, staining the white linen table cloth, painting you both in a beautiful light. He looked like something out of a dream. His broad shoulders stretched his Oxford shirt, and he’d decided against a tie, opting instead for a gold chain you’d given him for his birthday last year. It hung loosely in front of his open buttons, and you wanted to use it to pull him closer to you so you could taste his mouth.
John smiled at you and took a sip of his dark wine,
“You look fuckin’ stunning, love.”
You felt yourself blush, your face reacting before you told it to,
“Thanks, babe. This is really lovely.”
“I can’t wait to get you out of that dress, missus, but I promised I would be patient. You’ve been doing so much for us lately. You deserve to have everything your heart desires tonight, and I’m going to make sure you bloody well get it.”
The appetizer, the entré - the whole menu - was to die for. John had ordered in advance, expertly you might add, and everything had been just to your taste. He’d picked a lobster vol au vent for you, and you had eaten every single bite. As dinner was winding down, you knew you’d stayed out too long as your breasts began to feel full and achy. You tried to adjust your dress politely to relieve some pressure, but to no avail. John kept looking down at your cleavage when he thought you weren’t looking, and it just made matters worse. Your nipples had become so sensitive since you’d given birth, and now, you were trying to keep from experiencing the pain of your neglect.
You were surprised that John wasn’t in more of a hurry. He was obviously horny as hell. His comments were ludicrously salacious, and when the waitstaff wasn’t around, he was rubbing a foot up your leg with a very suggestive look on his face. But, still, he ate leisurely through his salted duck course, sipped his wine languidly, and raked his eyes all over your exposed skin.
“Wow, that was amazing. Thank you so much for tonight, John. You want to grab the check?” You prompted, hoping to make it back to the hotel so you could relieve some of this intense pressure.
“Not yet, love. You haven’t even had dessert yet,” he grinned, but something dark lurked underneath it, “tres leches or chocolate ganache?”
"Thank you, love,” you say, trying to convince him to leave, “Honestly, I couldn't eat another bite. Why don't we head back to the hotel?"
"No, little bird. I insist. Besides, tres leches is your favorite," a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you knew then what game he was playing.
John had been so attentive when you first got home. Your whole house was covered in sticky-notes and timers, organizing your whole house into a well-oiled machine, all meant to optimize your baby’s transition. He knew her feeding times like the back of his hand, and he was usually the one who reminded you when it had been too long between feedings or pumps. Now, here he was, lazily waiting for the dessert to arrive, staring at you like you had hung the moon.
That son of a bitch. He was doing this on purpose. You felt your pussy clench around nothing in sick glee. Traitor.
You may or may not have overexaggerated your discomfort now that you knew his plan. You fidgeted with the low neckline of your dress, running a finger around its edge, watching him through your eyelashes as he glowered at you, eyes fixed on your swollen chest. You were in actual discomfort; however, and you felt yourself start to perspire. Your breaths became shallow, and the tightness across your breast tissue sent you into a sort of trance-like level of concentration. You tried to hold it together, but you could feel the overflow leaking into the pads, and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.
He slipped his fork through the cream of the tres leches, decadently savoring the sweet milk as he consumed each bite, his eyes bright with mischief. Finally, you heard the scraping and clinking of an empty plate, and your whole body sighed in relief.
He let you hear the deepest, darkest chuckle resonate in his chest and called the waitstaff to your table.
“Check, please.”
The drive back to the hotel was grueling. Every bump on the road made your breasts jiggle, and the level of excitement and anticipation you had made you feel drunk. He helped you out of the car, giving you his hand to lift you up, looping your arm in his as he walked you through the lobby. You waited for the elevator, shifting your weight from heel to heel, listening to the quiet click of them against the gleaming white marble floors. The elevator dinged, and the door opened. Price led you in.
With each ding of the passing floors, he drew nearer to you, now staring down your scooping neckline unrestrained. He nuzzled against your neck, smelling your scent, burying his face in your soft hair.
“Mmm, I can’t wait to taste you, love,” his voice was barely above a whisper, and its tone made your body physically react.
You couldn’t respond, but he heard your breath quicken. He smiled, cocky and thoroughly entertained,
“Are you full?”
“W-what?” You looked at him wide-eyed, not sure what he was asking since your attention was centered on your aching breasts.
He pulled back, suddenly very normal, but his wolfy grin remained in place, testing you,
“From dinner. Are you still hungry, love?”
“Oh,” you were sweating. Damn this man, “No, it was lovely. Thank you for taking me, John.”
“Why do fancy places have the smallest plates?” He smiled sweetly at you, joking with you.
You smiled back, shrugging,
“I dunno. Sometimes it only takes a bite to truly enjoy something, I guess.”
“Not for me,” he shrugged, dipping his head to whisper with you again, almost like you were conspiring together, “I’m more of an all-you-can-eat bloke. I want seconds, and thirds…” his hand trailed up the side of your leg, almost reaching your lacy thong, “...and fourths. Mmm…” His hot mouth fell to your collarbone, making you gasp.
Ding! Your floor had arrived as requested yet suddenly unwelcomed.
He led you through the hall, and you might as well have been at gunpoint for all the volition you had. You knew what the lambs felt like who had gone on their journeys to the slaughter, trusting and innocent, not expecting the knife at the end of the path. But, you were not so naive. You knew what lay behind that heavy hotel door, ready to sink into your flesh, and you welcomed it with wide open arms.
John held the door open for you and followed you inside. His huge, warm hands helped you slip out of your jacket and he bent down to his knees to undo the ankle strap of your heels. He carefully set them down by the door, the pointed toes facing the wall, the buckles hanging loosely from their bands.
You sighed with relief,
“Mmm, thank you. I’m out of practice walking around in those.”
“You look fit as ever, little bird,” his voice was sweet and honest. It killed you to see him down there on the floor; there was something about it that made your heart sing.
On his way up, he drug his hands up your thighs and underneath your dress, mimicking the touch he’d started in the elevator. It felt like you were sinking into a burning hot bath, like his hands were flames, licking at your body hungry and scorching.
“Come sit with me,” he led you to the couch and sat next to you, leaning in to kiss your mouth, pulling at your jaw with his hands, savoring your taste with his tongue.
He moved his hand from your neck down to your swollen breast and rubbed your skin, squeezing you gently. You hissed, trying to leave the couch and run to the bathroom,
“Ouch…sorry, John. I need to go and pump and I’ll be right back.”
Without any resistance, he pulled you onto his lap, hitching your dress up to your waist and positioning your legs so that you straddled him, your full chest at his eye-level. He gently took the straps down, one by one, and peeled the fabric away from your skin, letting it ruche under your breast tissue, creating a balconet where your tits were lifted up, served to him as if on a silken platter. The wet nursing pads fell out and onto the floor. He ignored them.
You gasped at the relief of being let free, but they were so sore that you struggled to stay still. The more turned on you became with all of his attention, the harder the clenching feeling contracted inside your breasts, begging for a let down. John’s hands wrap easily around your ribs and pull you forward, tilting your body into his eager face, nuzzling against your bare skin, enjoying the curve and softness of your tits against his cheek. The way his beard caressed your sore nipples was like some sort of heaven, and your pussy reacted to each and every stroke.
“John…” You whispered, desperate for release, “Please, honey. I…I can’t wait any longer. It hurts.”
He'd probably be happy to spend the next hour just like this, scenting himself against your skin like a giant cat, but you’re battling between your milk and your desire, your hips unconsciously grinding down against him, trying to find some friction. His voice rumbled over you like the distant threat of thunder,
"Something my little bird needs?"
"Please. John, please."
"That's my good girl. Shh," he murmurs, pulling you closer until he can ever so slightly drag his lips across your nipples, exhaling his hot breath against them, and relishing how the sensation makes your entire body tremble.
"Ple... please..." you stutter, begging, you eyes watery as you struggle to push yourself even closer to him, watching him test out a position of his mouth so he can latch onto you.
"I know, babe. I'll take care of you," he promises.
Then, with soft, wet lips extended over your darkened nipples, he finally finds a secure latch and begins to suckle from you, filling your whole body with a sensation of ecstatic relief. It’s so intense that you feel the other nipple let down as well, dripping down and staining the fabric of your dress.
John moans as he consumes you, his eyes clenched tight in bliss, his tongue lapping at your milk, swallowing mouthful after mouthful, greedily. You reach between your legs to find his cock painfully straining against his dress pants, and you tug at the zipper. He doesn’t assist you; he’s too busy enjoying his second dessert of the evening, but eventually you are able to free his fat cock from his pants and position him at your soaked entrance, fingering your panties out of the way. He throbs as you sink onto his head, and he sucks against you harder, drawing more of your sweet milk into his mouth. It’s too much for him, and some of the white cream drips from the corner of his bearded lips, sliding down his chin.
You lingered in this position, teasing his cockhead with your wetness, listening to his moans and deep whines, reveling in the pleasure he was giving you and in the pleasure he was taking. Then, mercifully, you sat down onto his cock and began to rock back and forth. The intensity made you want to come. The feeling that welled up in you, satisfied yet electric, was so overwhelming that your body convulsed. He held you down with incredible strength, pinning your hips to his, nearly forcing your body to swallow him up.
Unbelievably, you felt yourself clench down around his shaft with each thrust, adding onto your pleasure, stacking it up exponentially, causing you to groan and beg with every little movement he made.
“That’s it,” he spoke around your nipple, sucking and swallowing your creamy filling between his delightful praises, “Ridin’ that cock just how I like it, aren’t you? Taste so good. I want more. I need more from you, little bird. Sing for me. Let me hear you while I take you. I need it.”
He moved to the other, leaking nipple, cleaning up your mess with his tongue before latching on, coaxing your let down to fill his mouth, messily slurping it into his hollowed cheeks and moaning from the taste of you. You ran your hands through his hair and cradled his head, swinging your hips back and forth, desperate to give him what he needed.
“Oh, my God, John. You’re making me come.”
“Come,” he said, suddenly pulling his lips from your breast and looking up at you to watch your involuntary performance. Milk dripped out of his mouth sloppily, and he kissed you through it, making you taste yourself before pulling back to stare into your eyes, “Come for me. I need it.”
You did as you were told, and he moved both of his hands to your sensitive breasts, squeezing them gently, letting them spray wherever they would, not caring how it looked or what clothing was being ruined by it. He experienced your orgasm in clenching, wet waves as your pussy melted onto him, soaking his dress pants and creating sticky strings of slick between your core and his gleaming rod.
“Oh, fuck,” he rubbed his wet mouth between your breasts, smearing stray milk across his cheeks, moving from one nipple then the next with wreckless abandon, causing you to let down in a heavy flow, your body struggling to meet his overwhelming need.
He continued to feed from you, riding out your high, but you had lost the strength to ride him, and you clutched your arms around his neck in exhaustion. John lay you down on the couch and pressed his body onto yours, fucking you harder and faster into the soft cushions. He continued to feed from you, swallowing what you had left in you, savoring every drop like it was ambrosia, like he’d never be able to taste you again.
You felt him start to come undone. His cock swelled, becoming even harder, and he fucked you with complete abandon, shouting gutterally, growling like a rabid beast. He was suckling from you again, his face contorted in beautiful agony, and you felt him come inside of you as he drank from your full tits, filling you with his white-hot spend, and fucking it against your womb at the end of your cunt, making it fold and froth around his pink head.
He gasped, trying to catch his breath, and he lay himself on top of you, still fondling your breasts, plucking gently at your wet, swollen nipples, smiling up at you,
“Tha’s what I needed, little bird. Missed you.”
“I missed you, too, John.”
He pulled his cock from you gingerly and slapped himself playfully on your sensitive clit, still turgid and thick,
“Wanna go again? I’m still hungry for you, baby.”
