by Ellen Parker
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He said he knew I didn’t want it. He said yes he knew.
Earlier tonight I stood before him in the bedroom and I asked him how on earth had I gone from that to this? This! And I let down my nursing cups and I hoisted the two of them sadly, those gross milky twins wearing their swarthy caps, goose-fleshed. Both of them were weeping. For this I fully expected repulsion on his part. Instead though his arctic eyes pooled and his lips parted and warily I said, "Ah yes, I know that hungry look." All the irises in this house give me those wolfish eyes.
Here the baby cried.
"Well, well," I rasped. I packed away my tits and I went out.
I know it’s been weeks and weeks. You think I can’t count? But I ask you: just how much am I able to give? How much more can I give before I am dry?
Of course I feel his mind on me. It’s constant. It’s wearisome. It’s pitiful. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful. It’s loving. It’s heartbreaking.
But in this house the baby rules. The baby wants. The baby needs. The baby gets. She mustn’t wait. Her parents exist to serve her. Thinking otherwise leads no place satisfying.
So. Now I am rocking. She has just finished off both of my breasts. She has fully milked me. Now she dozes, sated. I have just placed her lightly on her back on the small hard mattress of her crib and while I rock the rocker in the dark I look at her there. She is so tiny and so touching and so by herself, in lonely relief against the vast paleness of that ridiculous prison, and suddenly my nipples tingle and I can feel the milk coming down again.
At this moment all I can think is: I am ready to share.
Oh, this makes me smile. This strikes me as being terribly droll. After all, how can I go from that to this?
Presently I want to be the one to suck. I have a powerful urge. I mustn’t wait. I undo my leaky tits. I will take them quickly up the stairs. But won’t everything get all milky? Sure it will. Nevertheless I will climb onto our bed and throw off the covers and straddle him and suck his cock and suck and suck until he is hard. Then I will slide him inside me and I will watch his sleepy smile and together the two of us, me on top, will take a ride.
Then I’m imagining he might think it appropriate, while we are rocking as if it’s our first, to tell me how happy this is by starting to say, "I love..." But I will whisper shhhh and I will say, "I love...oh yes, I love..."
And I will offer my bawling tits to his hands and he will grasp them and milk them so wet that while we fuck the warmth of the juice will sluice through his fingers and oh the only words that can enter this heaven are I love to fuck you and as I say it the meaning of each word will sting the surface of our skin like small angry pebbles flung hotly into a pond.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2008 by its authors.
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