The Emancipation of Mammaries

Listen, if you don't care to read about some borderline racy bedroom stuff, then come back tomorrow, ok? Don't say I didn't warn you.

For roughly fourteen months now (since they started dripping randomly) my breasts have been the sole property of the young master. Once they became utilitarian, they became uni-taskers. Once or twice during our 'courting rituals', SOB would forget and give them a little squeeze, but then he would end up with a handful of milk. Nothing says sexy like your wife's breast milk all over your palms, right? So the foreplay would often jump from above the neck to below the navel quite rapidly.

This didn't really bother me because in my pre-baby life I wasn't all that into my boobs. Yes, I would hoist them into medieval contraptions in order to make them appear weightless, but I was never that into having them manhandled, licked, sucked, etc. during sex. I didn't mind these things, but I never sought them out.

Once they became off limits, though, I became a wee bit obsessed. First of all, they never looked better. Other parts of me were sagging and a bit flabby after Sam was born, but my rack was bitchin'. As a life long small breasted woman, I was shocked to find myself filling out my new D cups. They were nursing bras, so they didn't exactly scream 'vixen' but still. My new found buxom bust line was the main thing (or things, I guess) that helped me re-claim my sexual identity after giving birth.

And no one was allowed to touch them. At least, not in that way.

Finally, Sam has taken to this whole weaning process. We are still nursing occasionally, but we're down to less than once a day. Which means that my milk production has essentially stopped and he's just nursing for comfort. That's A-OK with me because last night, I was able to enjoy some quality 'hands-on' time with the good doctor, if you catch my drift. I felt dirty and wrong for doing something that most consider boring by tenth or eleventh grade.

But I felt good.