Nursing 101

by Christina H.

Based on the short story/remembrance:
Nursing My New Baby
by Alison

My name is Alison and I am 22 years old. My daughter, to whom I gave birth just over a year ago, is named Jennifer Marie. I am a single mom, or as my mother likes to refer to me, an unmarried mother. To me this is age--or more correctly, generational--semantics.

First, let me say that before Jennifer, I never took a sexual interest in young girls of any type, infants or otherwise. Women my own age, yes, because I am strongly bisexual. (Half queer to my mother.) You can imagine my shock, then, my horror, as I discovered that breast-feeding my daughter caused me arousal.

It didn't happen at once. I was home perhaps two weeks and beginning to acclimate to a hungry mouth at my breast eight to ten times a day. The truth is, I had been brow-beaten into this decision by my mom, who as everyone knows is the penultimate authority in Atlanta on just about everything. Including breast-feeding daughters.

"You know, I hate to remind you of this," I reminded her for the thousandth time, "but the only one of us kids you breast-fed was James. Look at how he turned out." James was currently in jail.

Mom just waved this off. "His code of ethics has nothing to do with being breast-fed. Out of you five kids, James suffered the least amount of sickness, missed the fewest days of school, and is the most athletic. I only wished I had seen the light starting with your sister, Bonnie."

This "fact" was oft-discussed and oft-disputed by my three older sisters and I, all of whom agreed that James suffered just as many colds and flu's and other nasty bugs as the rest of us. My mother, however, once ensconced in an idea is impossible to budge out of it. Hence, I was the latest of the Hadley sisters to be delivering an offspring the immunity factors passed on by mother's milk.

"Bullshit," I muttered to myself. It was just after three o'clock and I was sitting down for Jennifer's mid-afternoon feeding. I unbuttoned my blouse, looked automatically over my shoulder to make sure the neighbors weren't arrayed along the sidewalk outside for a free shot of my breasts, and then pulled my the bra cup aside.

"Here, sweetie. Make Mommy proud of you."

I guided her mouth to my right nipple, tickled the corner of her mouth to get her to latch onto it, just as my mom had instructed me the first day. I had to give her credit: she did know the tricks. Sighing, I smiled down at my sweetie and experienced the contentment Mom had also been correct about. Pain in the ass as is was sometimes--especially at three o'clock in the morning, when I'd just as soon flush her down the toilet as feed her--nursing my little one reinforced the fact that I was actually this child's mother.

My cell phone rang. It sat beside me on the end table and I groaned, as I always did nowadays, seeing that name on the display.

"I'm not home," I grumbled. Resigned to feeling hopelessly spineless, however, I picked it up anyway and pressed the button on the side activating the microphone. At least I could have some temporary satisfaction from that: James hated being on speakerphone.

"Hi, James." This was James, the baby's father, not James with my last name currently in the city jail.

"How's my girls today?" he asked sprightly. It always set my teeth on edge being called a girl. Girls didn't get pregnant in a cheap motel room in Myrtle Beach and have to raise a child without benefit of a father, no matter how worthless he was. Girls got to wear dainty dresses to church on Sunday and worry about a boy in school wanting to steal their first kiss--as opposed to their virginity. Not that I was a virgin, by any stretch of the imagination. I had forfeited that claim at the age of 14. (16, for my anal virginity; 13 for my mouth--in of all places a stall in the boy's middle school bathroom.)

"Just fine," I conceded. Jennifer had exactly the right angle and was sucking away happily at my milk supply. It pleased me absurdly that she had placed her tiny right hand on my breast and appeared to be holding it as she drank. It made me want to giggle, a desire I squashed ruthlessly. It was not letting that asshole think I was giggling over him.

"Whatcha doin' right now?" he asked.

"Feeding her and watching TV," I said cautiously. I had to watch what I said to James. He took everything with a sexual connotation or sub context. I say the word breast-feeding, and he immediately steers the conversation into talk about sex.

For no reason that I could think of, it struck me suddenly that I'd been sexless for four months. I'd last been naked and willing the night of the Christmas Party, December 13th. Clea works for one of our smaller customer accounts. I was nominally their sales rep; Marly, my boss letting me handle the smaller accounts. Clea and I had hit it off the day I'd walked into her office to introduce myself. As much as I liked her, however, I'd still been amazed to find myself in bed with her, six months hugely pregnant.

"We didn't hurt him, did we?" she'd asked worriedly. "Her, I mean?" This was right after she'd made love to me in the missionary position--a position I'd have thought impossible at that point, especially with a strap-on, but which we had just executed flawlessly.

"I think that would be pretty tough," I said, "considering you barely touched me." This was bullshit, of course: She'd touched me with every available centimeter of her body, on every available centimeter of mine. I'd be hard pressed to remember a time when I'd felt more joined to a person than I had just then. The truth was, I was in happiness heaven.

"She's not kicking you in retribution or anything?" she asked, gazing at my swollen middle with a look that made me want to couple with her again and give Jennifer something to really complain about.

Jennifer, in fact, was paying me retribution on a large scale: kicking me in the ribs, elbowing me in the pelvis, delivering head-butts to my swollen bladder. We'd woken her up with a vengeance.

"You're sure sex is safe?" she pressed, playing the tips of her fingers over Jennifer's hump.

"I'm sure sex is safe for me," I teased. "She's too young to get pregnant."

Clea is one of those souls who regard pregnancy as inherently dangerous for a woman, herself included. Although she showered affection on me every day for the next four months, that night was my only taste of the wonderful object she kept in her bedside drawer. She even ignored my humiliating pleas for anal sex. How's that for pitiful?

"Maybe I could come over," James said. "See you both."

"No!" I said too fast. Backing up a step, I softened that with: "Mom's got a houseful of people coming over this afternoon for some Tupperware thing. I'm already exiled to my room, and it's hardly big enough for me and the bassinet as it is."

This was only half a lie: the party was tonight, not this afternoon, and I would be exiling myself willingly to my room, or the nursery more likely, which was smaller but less cluttered with junk. I had no use for Tupperware, or whatever else these grandmotherly types were pushing.

We agreed to spend a couple hours together on Saturday. I had to grudgingly admit that James tried to live up to his responsibilities as a father. He paid his child support on time--without interdiction from the judicial system--and never once had he suggested that I have an abortion instead of delivering our beautiful daughter into the world--a suggestion that would have forfeited any rights ever, as the child's biological father.

Amazingly, he'd even shown up at the hospital to attend my labor. True, he'd later ruined any feelings of goodwill by insulting Clea and egging her into a fight--let me amend that: trying to egg Clea into a fight. Clea had ignored the taunts, the insults and accusations, even acceding to James's demand that she stay the hell out of the delivery room while his daughter was being born. In the end, it was my dad who'd finally lost his temper and thrown James out of the hospital on his ear. Since then, an uneasy truce existed at the Hadley residence. In keeping with Dad's edict on non-favoritism, neither was allowed on the premises unless in the presence of one or both parents. To my chagrin, Clea agreed entirely with this policy. James took pleasure in knowing that I couldn't see his competition during my unattended hours in the morning and afternoon, and would have equal footing with Clea on evenings and weekends. I was so frustrated.

After hanging up, disgruntled, I ran the DVR back to the beginning of General Hospital and started fresh. Jennifer was approximately half-done with my right breast and, checking to make sure her little mouth was correctly positioned, and that she was comfortable, I settled back to watch TV. Five minutes later I jumped, startling Jennifer and making her abandon my nipple and squall loudly.

"It's OK," I comforted her, smoothing her hair and cooing to her gently. "Momma didn't mean to frighten you like that. Momma's a bad girl. Doing something she shouldn't have been doing. I don't know what's the matter with me," I continued to coo, getting her settled, guiding her mouth back to my erect nipple. What Mommy had been doing, was diddling herself.

"I don't believe you did that!" I scolded myself. I'd been reminiscing--fantasizing--about Clea and our one night together. Somewhere in the middle of that remembrance, I had undone the button on my jeans, unzipped the fly, and slid my fingertips into my panties. I blushed at the knowledge that I had quite unconsciously been masturbating in front of an open window. I threw a guilty glance out the window now, examining the empty sidewalks this side of the street and the other, as well the blankly staring windows of the opposing houses. No worry there, I knew: The Schmidt's both worked during the day, as did the Ashcroft's; neither had any children to worry about. Relived, but still troubled, I returned my attention to General Hospital. Or tried to.

I had two problems. One, my jeans were still unzipped. Two, I was incredibly horny. My heart was beating at an accelerated rate and I could see the accelerated rise and fall of my chest. I was breathing through my mouth. Shifting my weight confirmed that I was uncomfortably wet between my legs. The tip of my left middle finger itched to get back into contact with my clitoris. The desire was almost overpowering.

"What is going on with you?" I wondered aloud. Looking down, I was again struck by the appearance that little Jennifer was holding my breast as she sucked. Only, it wasn't just an appearance. Jennifer was holding my breast, no matter how improbably, and realizing this sent a shiver down my spine.

You're aroused, by your own daughter nursing? I asked myself.

What a ridiculous conjecture.

Only, it wasn't ridiculous. Watching Jennifer suckle my breast was not only getting me physically aroused, but also making me very nervous mentally. I was imagining myself sitting here with no jeans or panties on, masturbating with my left hand while my right cradled Jennifer and keep her at my breast. The image was so powerful that I didn't right away acknowledge that my left hand was in fact pushing at my jeans, trying to get them over my hips and down my thighs and the hell off of me. I froze my hand right there . . . and then looked at the window wondering if I dared continue. The more I looked at the angles, the more I became convinced that the high arms of the chair would conceal any nudity below the waist. That was supposing anyone could see through the window anyway, as my return stare at the windows of the Schmidt's and the Ashcroft's houses seem to contradict. It was apparent that the blinds were up and the curtains drawn on the windows in the Schmidt's house, and half of those at the Ashcroft's, but I could see nothing but darkness behind the panes of glass. Even the curtains, no more than six inches from the window, were indistinct blurs. I could strip myself naked right now and not have to worry about being seen, I thought. I settled for naked below the waist.

Wanting my right hand free, and knowing Jennifer was about done at my right breast anyway, I switched her to the other side and curled my wrist far enough up to reach the tip of my right nipple with my left fingertips. I played with it while my right hand busied itself between my legs. In no time I was breathing loudly through my mouth, moaning softly, and experiencing spasms in the muscles of both my thighs. The inside of my ribcage felt like a drumhead, pounded on by my heart. The spasms in my thighs migrated to the walls of my vagina, and I was in misery.

"Nnnngunhh," I heard myself grunt. Looking down, I saw that Jennifer had fallen asleep at my breast, still sucking gently, though more as a pacifier than a nipple. This made my incredible orgasm double and then triple in strength, until I grabbed the arm of the chair with my right hand, trying to rip the material with my claws, felt my back arch uncontrollably and my legs thrust violently apart hard enough almost to dislocate themselves at the hip joints, an eruption of lava exploding violently from between my legs. It felt that way, it honestly did. Afterward, gazing down, I was amazed not to find the skin of my thighs seared and the carpet below smoldering. In reality, I had leaked rivulets of vaginal juices down the inside of both thighs and, despite being alone, felt almost humiliated. I was a swamp inside. I could smell myself.

Staggering out of the chair, Jennifer clutched to my chest, I grabbed my jeans and panties off the floor and wobbled to the stairs, which I climbed stumble-footed to the second floor landing. Careening to the right, I somehow made it the ten feet to the nursery without crashing against any walls and laid Jennifer down in her crib. I then collapsed into the rocking chair.

"Oh, my God," I panted. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I tucked them beneath my chin. Incredibly, I was still experiencing an orgasm. It went on and on and on, racking me with shudders and startled gasps as muscles spasmed electrically. It was like someone had run a wire from the wall socket directly to my vagina. No, more like directly into my uterus, for the jolts seemed to emanate from much deeper inside. I continued to emit little pips and squeaks for a humiliatingly long time. How would I ever explain this to my mother, were she home? And to my horror, I discovered that I was still leaking vaginal fluid and had soaked a roughly fist-sized area of the chair between my legs. Wailing in distress, I lurched awkwardly out of the chair and stumbled bow-legged to the bathroom to first douche, and then stopper myself up. This was so horrible. Just . . . horrible.

* * *

I had never orgasmed like that before. Not even with Clea, who'd pushed me nearly over the edge. For hours afterward, I lived in terror that something hideous was wrong with me. As the hours dragged by, however, and I wasn't crippled by any further symptoms, I began to relax. It was just circumstance, I told myself. I was horny. It was the right time of the month. (I was ovulating, I determined.) I was experiencing some type of heightened sexual awareness because of Jennifer. I had been more or less naked. I had masturbated before an open window in the family room of my mother and father's house. I was nuts.

"You're nuts, all right," I told myself. Sitting down on the rocker, I opened my robe and guided Jennifer to my left breast. I had decided to start on the opposite side this time, hoping to short-circuit any repeat of today's event. Paranoia had me in its grip, and not just due to the party going on downstairs. Loosing control of myself had been terrifying. It was like I'd had a seizure or something. In fact, I wasn't sure that I hadn't.

For the first half of the feeding, things went fine. I was just beginning to relax when an errant thought drifted through my mind. It was something I'd wondered before, but had never given much serious thought to: How much sensation does an infant experience when she touches, or is touched, on her labia? I had read somewhere that, even as infants, females experience sexual arousal when touched. I believed this. Clea touched me with such tenderness that it made me want to open myself like a giant clam and capture her inside me.

The thought drifted away for a time, then returned with a little more glow around its edges. I shifted uncomfortably, remembering my wantonness of that afternoon. I was afraid to let any errant thought, no matter how ridiculous, find a crack to settle into and put down roots. Despite my best efforts, however, that is exactly what happed.

"Oh, come on!" I hissed disgustedly. "Don't you even think about that!"

I stomped on the thought, hoping to crush it entirety into the crack. Enough of it kept escaping, however, that no matter how much I stomped, it wouldn't go away.

"I am not doing that," I said through clamped teeth. Even as I said it, however, my fingertips stole beneath the crotch of Jennifer's diaper and sought out her wonderfully soft labia. A shiver ran up my spine as I traced over her delicate petals. Ever so gently, I let the tip of my middle finger spread her apart, surprised by her inner warmth and the unexpected wetness I felt. Why I should expect her to be dry, I didn't know. Certainly, her diaper was wet. Certainly, that wetness came from her tiny urethra. Even as I reasoned this, however, my fingertip insisted the wetness was from a different source, a different bodily function completely.

"Poppycock," I said aloud, laughing uncomfortably. A baby did not become sexually aroused feeding from her mother's breast. "Poppycock," I objected again. But as my fingertip continued to stroke between her lips, Jennifer showed a marked heightening of interest in my nipple, sucking on it with doubled intensity and moaning softly. I also noticed a marked change in the kicking of her feet, more spasmodically now. I also detected a subtle difference in her other movements, a twitchiness.

My, God, I thought to myself distractedly. Am I giving my daughter an orgasm?

My reaction was anything but subtle. Arising from the chair, I carried Jennifer to the bedroom door and pushed the lock in with my thumb. Paranoid, overly cautious, I twisted the doorknob to check the lock's function. The button popped out obediently, and I pushed it back into the knob and then carried Jennifer over to the dressing table where I laid her down on her back. Rather than cry as expected, she cooed and gurgled and waved her arms and kicked contentedly, making me laugh. I responded by bending over and blowing a raspberry on her belly, which made her gurgle even louder. She was too young to laugh, but it was obvious she enjoyed her mommy's playfulness. I wondered how she'd react to what I'd do next.

Without thinking about it--without allowing myself to think about it--I clumsily unfastened the tabs on her diaper and folded it away from her. Bending down, I kissed her gently between the legs and then licked her with a medium long stroke of my tongue. I shuddered hard and rose up to see what effect, if any, my indiscretion had had on my daughter. I felt like such a pervert. I felt so incredibly aroused.

With both hands I slid my panties off my hips and down my thighs and let them drop to the floor. It felt erotic, standing there with them puddled around my ankles. I remained where I was, breathing raggedly, heart beating erratically. I checked the window blinds for the tenth time, making sure they were properly closed. I lowered my face and kissed her again, let my tongue languish on her deliciously soft lips, licked her as I remembered Clea licking me so unexpectedly the night of the Christmas party. With the love only a mother can impart to her child, I closed my eyes as the tip of my tongue first spread, and then invaded her ever so gently. I almost wept when her tiny hands grabbed handfuls of my hair and tugged at it gently. I laughed in shock a moment later as a fountain of warm pee exploded into my mouth and began to rain back down between her vulnerably spread legs. What I did was instinctual. I lowered my mouth and began to ingest the warm liquid in desperate gulps, trying to suppress the realization of what my mouth was doing, wanting only to remedy a situation my actions had brought about. I discovered that Jennifer's pee was richly sweet and deliciously salty; this helped me get through my task. Afterward, giggling at the absurdity of it, I licked my baby clean, powdered her, and put her in a new diaper.

That was a year ago. Mom tells me I should no longer nurse Jennifer, citing the American Academy of Pediatrics and other pediatric organizations. This particular piece of advice I ignore. Jennifer owns my breasts and can nurse at them for as long as she likes. I, of course, continue to bless her with that little something extra Mommy and she discovered a year ago. It mystifies Mom that Jennifer so looks forward to her diaper changes.

The good news is that I'm pregnant again. Last week Clea proposed to me. I, of course, threw myself into her arms and jumped up and down in jubilation. A married woman, finally! I can't wait! The ceremony is set for the first Saturday in September. It requires a move to New England, of course, but I've always wanted to experience a New England fall and this is my chance.

Last night, while removing my panties and kissing the just-noticeable bulge expanding my belly, Clea asked whether I wanted a boy or girl. He or she is not far enough along yet to be determined on a sonogram, so I answered yes, a boy or a girl. Clea grinned just before burying her face between my legs and making further thought impossible.

Who's the baby's father you ask? Only Clea and I know that and we're not telling anyone. As far as we're concerned, the baby is ours. I'll be happy with either sex, but a boy would be nice. I wonder if he'd be capable of an erection?