The Electrician
A lactation story.
I don’t know how I got into a discussion of lactation with the electrician. It was a long time ago. Maybe I’ll remember as I write this story down for the first time.
I had called someone randomly or got a reference, I don’t remember, but I had some minor issue involving a wall outlet. This was in the apartment that used to be the hay loft of a mule barn on the ancient cement factory, out in the back hills of Rosendale, New York. It was also the place where I wrote my first horoscope columns.
Summer afternoon in the mid-1990s. There was a gentle tap on the door.
When I opened it, I was looking at a woman about my height and age, her big green eyes gazing across at me. She was wearing worn-in overalls and work boots, and had a head of wild long red hair. Her face was wise and a little weathered, like she’d been through a few things. Friendly and pretty in a just-so-slightly slightly butch way. She strolled in carrying her tool bag.
I explained the issue. She had to take apart an outlet; I’d prepared for this, and had powered down my computer so she could cut the circuit and do the work, which was complete in about 15 minutes. To do whatever it was, I had to stand there to hold a light, so we were pretty close to one another.
She was down toward the floor and I was above her. Her tee shirt would hang forward when she leaned over, and I had a view of her adorable tits. They were smallish, with nice stand-out nipples. Either she was showing me, or was casual about her breasts, and I suspected she noticed me noticing. I could tell she had breast fed a child.
When she stood up, her nipples were at attention, poking through the soft, cozy tee shirt fabric…firm and looking luscious.
Now, this was in the time when younger women would wear a bra and two layers of tights to make sure you would never, ever see outline of their nipples. I assumed they were also taped over underneath all the layers of Lycra. All the young women of this era, even the girls who seemed hippyish, were very concerned that nobody would even consider the possibility they had nipples. Then they would dance around to Madonna songs about fucking such as “Deeper and Deeper.”
But not my electrician. We looked at one another’s faces for a moment.
“Did you have a kid recently?”
“Yep. He’s two. My mom has him at the moment.”
“I see.”
She added that she loved her son but also loved working and wanted to do it as much as possible.
I don’t know how we got from there to, “Yes, I’m still lactating.”
That is the mysterious missing link. But…we did.
“I’ve never even tasted human milk,” I said.
“Really? Would you like to?”
My heart skipped a few beats and I pulled a breath.
“I would love to.”
And that was that. She slipped down the shoulder straps of her overalls, her teeshirt came off, and I was looking at the most beautiful little tits I could imagine, the more lovely for having been milked. There was downy red hair around her areole. She had little red tufts of hair under her arms. I sat down on a chair at the kitchen table, my face at approximately breast hight. She got right next to me and leaned in. I sniffed her tits. I love to smell breasts. I could do it all day.
Then I took one of her nipples into my mouth and sucked.
No milk came out. Why would it? There’s a special way you have to squeeze.
“Let me massage them a little,” she said. “I have to draw down my milk.” She then casually stood there squeezing and stretching her areole. Then she massaged one of them and little beads of glorious human milk appeared. I learned in and licked it into my body — my first ever taste. My whole body and soul relaxed, at just a drop of this buttery, not quite sweet secretion…
“It’s colostrum,” she said. “Maybe we’ll also get some milk.”
She continued to massage her areolae and then with a squeeze, more of her buttery colostrum appeared, on both nipples. I licked it off.
This was sensuous but it did not exactly feel sexual, not overtly, but I was going deep into my self and into the experience. I placed my hands around her little waist and rested them on her hips, squeezing gently as if for stability.
She kept milking and I kept licking and then there was a sweet, cosmic spray into my mouth — actual milk…just a little, but enough that her warmth flashed through me. She was deliate and delightful and I took in her nourishment.
I don’t know how else to say it but it was a human encounter, someone doing something for someone that they could not do for themselves. And, I had met her approximately half an hour earlier.
She spread her legs and sat on my lap, pulling me close, and we related this way for I don’t know how long. So good, so beautiful, so natural. She milked and I sipped and swallowed tiny portions of her.
Finally it seemed time to stop. She gently stood up. My cock was hard, and had been pressing through my shorts and against her…and she looked down at me.
“What shall we do about that?” she asked teasingly.
“I’m open to anything,” I said.
“How about you cum on my tits, but if you do, you have to lick it off.”
I nodded slowly, heart pumping, my throat swallowing. She knelt down on the floor in front of me.
“Slip out of your shorts,” she said. I did, and I removed my shirt, wanting to be naked.
I masturbated, so easily, so beautifully, as she observed. I did not need to tease. I wanted to cum, I wanted her to see me cum, and I was in a frenzy at the thought of licking my semen off of her milky little boobs.
She sidled in close; my cock was touching her. “Just do it if you want” she said. I looked first at my penis aginast her nipples, between her squeezed-together breasts, and then I looked at her face and it was a glance of her big green eyes that sent me spinning into my surrender. I moaned, looking right into her gorgeous eyes.
I let go again and again, spurting wildly all over her breasts, which were dripping and coated and there was semen on her neck too. Finally I calmed down.
“Okay, clean up your mess, little boy.”
She moved back on the floor and laid down; I got down from my chair and licked my cum from her body, sniffing all the while, sucking her nipples a little as I did, cleaning her up but really coating her with a mix of my saliva and my semen and traces of her milk. I kept going until there was just a shiny sheen on her creamy white flesh.
She sat up, learned in and kissed me, tasting the mixture of both of us in my mouth. Not a make-out session but one long, languid kiss.
Then she was standing and put on her teeshirt and pulled up her overall straps.
“You’ve very sweet,” she said and then paused. “I’m gonna go.”
She picked up her tools. I walked her to the door. She gave me a peck on the mouth and disappeared down the stairs and into the summer afternoon. From my kitchen window, I watched her walk across the driveway and get into her truck.
Some time later I realized she had not mentioned payment for her electrical services.
