The air was thick with the scent of new life and the unspoken, simmering energy of women unburdened by social pretense. I, Steven, was an anomaly in this world of motherhood. When I’d agreed to be Sherry’s Lamaze partner, I thought I was simply being a good friend. Now, surrounded by a handful of new mothers in a neo-natal care class, I was something more: a “utility daddy,” a shared anchor for women navigating the uncharted waters of single motherhood. My role had been to coach them, to offer a steady hand and a calm presence, but now, the focus had shifted to something far more primal: breastfeeding.
The instructor, a tall, confident woman who was herself a nursing mother, began her demonstration. As she unbuttoned her blouse and unclasped her bra, a hushed reverence fell over the room. Her small, pointed breasts, crowned by large, dark nipples, were a revelation. Her baby latched on with a fervent eagerness, and a deep shiver coursed through her. A soft, collective sigh rippled through the room, including from Sherry. It was a shared moment of profound, almost sexual, sensation, and I was transfixed. My own arousal was a hot, insistent knot in my gut, a forbidden hunger that I tried to hide. I was a man surrounded by the wellsprings of life, and my own carnal instincts were screaming for a taste.
A week later, I was at Sherry’s apartment for the first meeting of their support group. I’d gone from being a friend to a Lamaze partner to now, a “utility daddy” to a small group of new mothers. My anticipation had been building all week, fueled by the vivid images of these women and the intimate, sensual act of breastfeeding. I arrived late, finding Sherry’s small living room already filled with the women I had coached. Each was either holding her baby or rocking it in a carrier. The conversation only paused for a moment as I entered. I greeted everyone with a wave and moved to the kitchen for a drink, my ears straining to catch their hushed conversation.
“I wondered if I was the only one,” a woman’s voice drifted in. “When my baby really latches on, it’s almost painful at first, but then I get the warmest feeling. It starts in my breasts and just floods me, all the way down between my legs.”
“Me too,” another breathed, her eyes closed in memory. “Sometimes I can’t keep from touching myself a little.”
“A little is all it takes to get me off,” Sherry added, her laughter a low, throaty rumble. With her admission, the floodgates opened. Each woman confessed to the secret thrill, the unexpected sexual jolt that came with this most maternal of acts. My body was humming, a tense wire pulled taut. I settled onto the arm of a chair, trying to appear nonchalant while my mind raced.
One woman, her baby sleeping peacefully in a carrier, looked at me with a mix of exhaustion and genuine need. “My baby doesn’t seem to feed enough,” she said. “I still have a lot of milk after she is done. I don’t want to save it, I just want to empty out so I can make more. I don’t want to dry up.”
The others commiserated, speaking of the discomfort of engorgement and the cold, unfeeling pumps. “My friend says her husband used to suckle after her baby was full,” another woman offered, and a soft moan of imagined pleasure went through the room.
The woman with the full breasts looked up at me again, her gaze direct and pleading. “Steven, would you help me, please?” she asked. Her plea was earnest, and it cut through the haze of my desire. I knew what she was asking. I moved to her, my hands shaking. As I knelt before her, the overhead light was switched off. I looked up to see Sherry closing the curtains, making the room a private sanctuary.
I was unsure of what to do, yet so excited. I slowly reached up, pushing back her sweater and blouse. She reached in, folding back the flap of her nursing bra. A big, dark brownish-pink nipple, glistening with a single drop of milk, was offered to me. Instinctively, I leaned down, my lips parting to receive the offering. The taste was sweet, warm, and utterly intoxicating. It was the taste of pure life, and it ignited every nerve ending in my body.
We moved to the sofa, and I lay across her lap, my head cradled in the curve of her breasts. As I began to suckle, a profound shiver went through us both. The other women watched, their faces a mix of curiosity and shared pleasure. I closed my eyes and focused on the rhythmic pull and release, drawing the warm, creamy milk into my mouth. I pumped my mouth on her dark nipple, and a torrent of mother’s milk rushed in. I moaned, and she did too, her hands tangling in my hair. The flow slowed, and she shifted, offering the other breast. I sucked with a renewed vigor, drawing the teat deeply into my throat. She began to rub her thighs together, her hips rocking in a silent rhythm. As I continued to feed, she arched back, a low shuddering moan escaping her lips as she climaxed. Her body went lax, and she released a deep, satisfied sigh.
I sat up, dazed and disoriented, my body throbbing with unspent energy. The woman next to me had been gently stroking my erection through my jeans, and I was now soaked with my own pre-cum. “Thank you so much,” the woman I had just fed whispered, her voice husky with pleasure. “You have no idea how much I needed that.” She kissed my cheek and, with a serene smile, went to her baby. Another woman took her place on the sofa, her eyes fixed on me with a quiet intensity.
The rest of the night was a blur of sensation. Each woman, one by one, offered herself to me. They were a procession of surrogate mothers, each with a unique rhythm and a different taste of milk. I was their baby, their lover, their unburdened release. My own desire, a frantic, aching need, balanced precariously with the primal pleasure of suckling. As Sherry sat at my feet, her fingers tracing the wet spot on my jeans, none of the women seemed to notice or care. It was all part of the same shared experience, a beautiful, carnal dance.
Finally, the last of the mothers had been relieved of her heavy load. My body was buzzing with a profound, almost spiritual euphoria. I looked down and saw Sherry, her fingers unzipping my jeans. She worked them down, freeing my erection. She gently stroked me, her touch like an electric current. My hardness was damp with my own anticipation, and her hand slid effortlessly. The other women gathered around, their eyes fixed on my body. One by one, they took their turns stroking me, their fingers and lips a soft, unhurried symphony of pleasure. One or two of them lowered their lips to kiss the head, or to take my entirety down.
Finally, Sherry, the only one who had not yet fed me, knelt over me. She undid her top and pushed a thick nipple between my lips. “Enjoy this, big baby,” she whispered, her voice a low purr. “Taste, suck, feed. Feel good just as you have made us all feel so good. Our big baby.”
The words were a trigger, a key to a deeper pleasure. I buried my face in her full bosom, my mouth working on her nipple with a ferocious hunger. I could feel hands everywhere, a chorus of touch, stroking and caressing me. A wave of pleasure rocked me, and I felt a great, shuddering climax build and erupt. I came in great, arcing jets, my cum raining down on my chest and stomach. I heard the gasps and moans of the women gathered around me, their pleasure a mirror of my own. As my climax subsided, Sherry leaned back. The other women moved in, their faces flushed with desire. One by one, they bent down, their tongues and lips eager, and licked and sucked and swallowed my cum. Sherry, with a soft smile, finished the job, leaving me clean and sated.
“When will we meet next, ladies?” she asked, her voice calm and serene.
“How about tomorrow at my place!” one of them replied, and the room erupted in a chorus of agreements. The night had ended, but a new ritual had just begun.
