She speaks, and it is like sunshine, her voice, so much so that he no longer feels the need to imagine would it feels like on his skin -- he has felt it, truly, now, in her speech. And that is good, it is right, and so he offers out a soft exhale of breath as he takes in all of her milk, and all of her. It is sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. He finds himself begging for more, perhaps more in his actions than words, the further leaning of his body, the leaving of the chair and all-encompassing of his mouth. He would last for days, given proper circumstances, it is something that comes easily to him.
When he stops, there is an audible exhale from him, a sort of whining, whimpering sound that tells more of him than anything else, perhaps. He gives her the look of a denied child, soon realizing it is he that is at fault, here, not her, and his lips spread into a smile, a small dot of her milk trickling along the corners of it. “Mother,” he offers, and no more, but he does not need to - not at this moment, here, when he swells through his slacks, between her.
And he moves to take more, maybe selfishly so. Before his mouth meets her breasts once more, he offers a single question -- a plea, rather.
“Mother, are you pleased with me?”
And so he feeds, feeds on sunshine and soft breezes.
