by Ellen Parker Read author interview August 15, 2004
I didn’t want it at first. I wasn’t prepared. My buds were not full enough to give suckle. But yes they grew day by day until really I disliked them. I missed their small plain painlessness and their absence of cummy spurts that make big creamy messes down my blouse flaps.
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.
About the Author:
Ellen Parker reads and writes. She is editor of the online literary magazine FRiGG, which is age 15 this year (2018). A teenager!
About the Artist:
A native of Ohio, Marty D. Ison lives with his wife transplanted in the sands of the Gulf of Mexico. He studied fine arts at Saint Petersburg College. In addition to the visual arts, he writes poetry, short stories, and novels. See more of Ison's work here.
Like what you read in SmokeLong? Consider donating to us. $3 helps a writer get paid.