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The Beast Within.

Tugging at her long nipples, her tits sucked into his mouth.

Ah God, enough, she says, too much. And with a last playful nip, that man is gone.

She imagines cradling the head of a youth, younger and beautiful, his long blond hair falling and hiding her breast. She is older than him, teaching him the lush fullness of a woman, how to please her, how to be slow. And she looks down at her breast and imagines a long, slender boy's body, broad shoulders and innocence, his head gently cradled in her hands , his gentle mouth suckling her breast, his warm hands around her body, pulling her onto his mouth.

Ah fuck, her nipples tighten and her breasts ache. Her cunt is opening, wetting. Sweet God, her imagination does this to her.

There is a sudden shift, and she imagines it's her own mouth suckling on that breast, taking that nipple into her mouth, the big breast is giving her nourishment. It is her hands cupping under that flesh, squeezing on the full, hot heat of a proud woman's breasts, her milky, full tits, the nipple hard. And oh god, as she sucks, she feels a shudder from the woman upon whom she sucks, and her head is held tight by two strong hands, and oh god, oh bliss, oh sweetness there is a great suck down and a sigh, and sweet milk fills her mouth, sweet honeyed nectar.

She drinks it down and it is oh so sweet, and her own breasts feel full and tight, as if they too could flow milk. Drink it down, that sweet milk, drink it down. Oh fuck, her belly aches, and is full and empty at the same time. The milk is so rich, it fills her, leaves her sated.

Her lips are a dribble, her suck has been so hard and her finger is in her mouth, little fucks into her mouth as her other hand pulls and tugs on a nipple. She shudders, god, she did not expect this. She did not expect being told what to do could be so good. Fuck.

Her fingers scrabble for her book, she must turn the next page, oh yes she wants to be told what is next. She does. Tell me, she sighs.

She turns the page, and there is the full rounded centre of her. Her belly is round and curved, and a pair of hands (long fingers that hold her belly with such gentle care) cover its fullness as if embraced from behind. Between the drawn, interlaced fingers, there is the deep curl of her navel. Her belly is full, and round, and creased, and wonderful.

A pillow, a soft place to rest. Dream.

She looks down at her body, her breasts all flushed and red where she has pinched and pressed, and the heat of those mouths still there, and she looks upon the swell of her belly. She presses the tip of her finger to the whorl of her navel, and pictures herself as a small squalling thing, the thick purple cord to her mother still pulsing with life and gives thanks. Alive. So fucking alive now, with heat and heart and lust. A gift from a stranger, ah my, dreams. My dreams.

In a stillness between pages, she imagines his head on her belly, soft and cradled, a pillow between pages, and she laughs as he says, "R, your tummy is rumbling, I can hear your last meal." She says, yes, the one I was told to eat.

She takes the book in both hands, pulls the gown close about her, and pulls her knees up on to the chair, resting her bum on her heels. She is wet, but she hasn't turned the page, not yet. She is still, quiet within her centre, and deep inside her, there is an empty ache. The play with her mouth and her breasts is wonderful, but it's not enough. Yet she pauses, wondering at the pages of the book. How does the book sense her shifting moods? Her needs? Damn it, her wants?

She turns the page.

There on the next page is another beautiful drawing, it is what she hoped it would be.

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