Lap Bitch

My master sits and pats his lap. I know it means, “Come.”

Like an obedient bitch, I pause only long enough to smile with my whole body and take in the thought of what we are about to do. Then I climb on his lap, straddling, with a knee on each side of his hips, and my breast level with his face.

Immediately my breasts perk up, and my nipples come alive. He will admire them for a while before tenderly teasing them. I am not sure who is getting the most enjoyment. We both groan.

When neither of us can stand the teasing any longer, he grabs a breast. All the tenderness of his approach has given way to his lust. He takes my nipple into his mouth and draws it tight with the first few sucks to the back of his tongue. The vacuum is tight ,and it pleasantly hurts a little. Then from behind my nipple I feel the “pins and needles” feeling
of my milk letting down. The vacuum disappears. He responds with a moan at the
taste of my milk. At this point I usually lose my composure.

I melt. My hands go to his head. Without losing the conscious feeling of his mashing grip of my breast and the rhythm of his lips on my nipple, my fingers become tentacles. The tips of them take in the cut ends of his short hair, and that contrasts with the overall silky and velvety coating it gives his scalp.  I bend my head over and pull a short snip of hair through my teeth. I take in the smell of his hair as I taste it.

From there my fingers travel down his neck and over his bare shoulders. I feel every crease in his neck, every bump and fine hair across his shoulders and down his arms.

There is a positive charge of energy coming from him through my fingers. Energy is flowing out of my breasts back into him. Then like a light bulb turning on, I become aware of the pulsating between my thighs. Is it originating from him or me? There is heat, hardness, wetness, and all these other sensations drawing my attention.

My thoughts are interrupted for only a minute second as he lets go of one breast and eagerly attaches to the other. My focus returns to my breasts, then my finger tips, and again back below my hips. I begin to grind and gyrate, something searching, until we connect and lock, like a piston in its chamber.

Just when I think I am on sensory overload, he begins to drag his finger nails down my back; slowly, slowly, and again slowly. The firmly applied sharpness of his fingertips sends tingles down my spine, while the heat and hardness below me sends vibrations upward. All the while his lips never leave my nipple.

My finger tips dig into the muscle under his shoulders. My breath changes, my moaning changes, my spine goes stiff and my thighs squeeze his. Then, without any conscious effort, my body does the lap dance that all other lap dances can only mimic.

I scream.

I melt again; like jello my arms fall to my side, and my head rests on his. There is the smell of his hair again. I try to bring my breathing back under control. I become aware of him, still attached to my breast, and his arms wrapped around me.

He lets go of my nipple and smiles.

11/08/2011 Loving It (an pen name I adopted many years ago for erotica)
This was written by me, and may only be used with my permission.

stock photo; no relationship to the post or author

Even with our regular bosoming times, my breast still crave attention between those times. I find myself going bra-less, knowing that the peaks in my top created by my nipples will draw him like a magnet. If we can not fit in an extra bosom time, it will at least result in a squeeze of my breasts or the lifting of my top for a quick taste.

This craving of attention… the longing to be touched even if it has only been an hour or so since I last had his undivided attention… It makes me think of my younger years when I had no real understanding of how a man’s “manhood” craved attention. Yes, I knew it was true, but knowing it and understanding are different. How naive I was to think my rewarding his manhood with attention must require at least some time consuming romantic gestures on his part first.

Now I know better, and I am as “grabby” as he is. “Roman hands and Russian fingers” describe both of us. I grab his perfect round butt cheeks every chance I get. I also rub to coax the genie out of the bottle to fulfill my wishes whenever circumstances allow it. There is no longer a need for drawn out rituals, though we still enjoy those times too.  

After a quarter century of marriage, our bodies still crave each other’s attention. How nice it is to be able to just give in to it. I know this “easiness” is because the emotional intimacy and the security is already established and reconfirmed by the other small acts that we now subconsciously do regularly after years of making them a part of our lives together.

I am as crazy about him, maybe even more so, than I have ever been. He makes me feel like he wants me just as much. It is obvious that we miss each other when we are apart through the day.

We are truly bosom buddies.

Yesterday was a busy day for my man. He made it home for lunch and dinner, but bosoming was crowded off the priority list by the need to return quickly to work. 

My heart and my breasts ached all day. I am trying to find words to describe it. It was worse than disappointment, worse than hunger and greater than need. It wasn’t a feeling of rejection, because I understood the reasons. Yet there was that deep aching pain, that intense longing both emotionally and physically. 

You just can not quiet the aching breast. I kept trying to find solace in the idea that bedtime bosoming was a sure thing. Ten o’clock came and went, then eleven. We finally climbed the stairs like zombies and dropped in bed after 2 am. For the first night since I can remember, there was no bedtime bosoming, but I too, could not stay awake a moment longer. I fretted in my sleep, wondering where our commitment to bring back the flow of milk went. I dreaded the morning with the thought that maybe he had changed his mind; maybe it was rejection after all. 

The alarm went off at 6am, just three and a half hours later. I actually expected him to reach over and re-set it, using our normal bosoming time for more sleep instead. 

My doubts and fears were laid waste by the intense eagerness in the pull on my nipples. I sighed loudly, and whispered in relief, “I was worried that you had changed your mind.” He came up for air just enough to emphatically say, “No way!” Then as if to prove it, he attacked my nipple with passion, almost burying it in his throat.

The author is a blogging father, and he seems to me to have that “dad to dad” talk going. So….. he can sometimes come across as crude, and he is not F-word shy. So, if you are offended by crude humor, don’t go there.

DadCentric

The bed side lamp was on, so I stepped into the doorway that led from our master bath to the bedroom.  Usually I find him still reclining against the head board waiting for me to come to bed. I normally use this time to make my entry, knowing he will enjoy watching me slowly remove my cammy or tank as I walk towards the bed.

This time as I step into the doorway, I see him already on his side, with his tall body scrunched down in the bed, so his head is at the place where my breast will be when I lay down. He lifts the covers so I can slide in. I stand there a moment and take it all in before I remove my top and head for the bed.  The look on his face, the special smile on his lips and in his eyes, say everything I could ever wish to hear.

I crawl in next to him and he covers me, wrapping his arm around me, as I wiggle in as close as I can. He attaches his lips to my nipple, and I think about the look I saw on his face when I entered the room. Then I tell him, “This is the best part of my day.”