by Lauren Rowe
“So, Doctor,” I interrupt. “Sorry. Excuse me. Can we just revisit the prior topic for a brief moment?”
The doctor raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”
“When you say ‘no sex,’ can you be a little bit more specific, please?”
There’s a beat.
“No intercourse.”
“No penetration?”
“Right.”
“Of any kind?”
The doctor nods.
“Including fingers?”
“Jonas,” Sarah says softly, her face turning bright red.
The doctor parts her lips, but she doesn’t speak for an awkward beat. “Correct. No penetration of any kind whatsoever.”
“But then oral sex is perfectly fine?”
“Jonas.”
“What? We’re all adults here, right, Doctor? I just want to be really clear on what’s allowed and what’s not. Gotta keep my baby safe... and happy at all times.”
The doctor’s trying her damnedest to maintain her professional demeanor, but there’s no mistaking the bloom rising in her cheeks. “Well, Jonas,” she says, clearing her throat, “I can honestly say no one has ever asked me this question before.” She tries unsuccessfully to stifle her smile. “With regard to oral sex, you can do as you please from a medical standpoint—there’s no risk of a complication—but you should know that Sarah’s gonna be bleeding pretty heavily for a solid six to seven weeks, so...”
I continue staring at Dr. Johnston, completely unfazed, waiting for her to finish her sentence. When she doesn’t, her implication becomes abundantly clear: any normal man would choose to wait six to eight weeks to perform oral sex on his smoking hot wife, rather than earn his red wings—even when no other form of sex is allowed for the entire six weeks. Huh. Would that really be the preference of the average, normal man? Well, if so, then normal men are just a bunch of fucking pussies.
“So,” the doctor finally says, filling the awkward silence. “I suppose it would be up to you. There’s no medical reason why you couldn’t do it, if you really wanted to.”
“Excellent,” I say, relief and elation flooding me. “Glad I asked, then.”
I’m tempted to wink, but I resist. I might be an asshole, but I’m not a total douche. I look over at Sarah, expecting to share a secret, celebratory look with her, but she’s covering her face with her hands, utterly mortified.
Dr. Johnston laughs. “Oh, come on, Sarah. Buck up. I’d count myself a lucky girl if I were you.”
Chapter 26
Jonas
Two Weeks Without Any Form of Sex Whatsoever
(Unless You Count Jacking Off as a Form of Sex)
aka Oh My Fucking God
It’s the dark of night.
Sarah moans next to me in the bed.
I jolt upright, wrenched from a sex dream. “Sarah?” My heart is in my throat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’ve just got to pump again. My boobs are rock hard. Ouch.”
A wave of relief floods me. Sarah’s made great strides in her healing since we came home from the hospital two weeks ago, but I still hold my breath every time she shows even the slightest hint of distress or discomfort.
Sarah turns on the lamp on the nightstand and looks down at herself in the dim light. “Oh jeez.” The front of her white nightgown is soaking wet and plastered to her chest—which, fortunately for my viewing pleasure, means her dark, erect nipples are visible through the wet fabric of her gown.
Oh man, I’m tingling. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.
The scent of breast milk fills my nostrils.
I’m a shark smelling blood.
“I’ll get your pump,” I say, hopping out of bed.
“Thanks, love. I think I left it over by the chair in the corner.”
I retrieve Sarah’s pump and return to the edge of the bed but stop short of placing the pump next to her on the bed.
“What?”
“I was just thinking,” I say, a gleam in my eye.
“What?”
I smile.
“Jonas Faraday,” she says. “No.”
I open my mouth to speak.
“No, Jonas. No. Effing. Way.”
I hand her the pump, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and climb back into bed next to her.
“You’re depraved,” she says.
“Yes, I am. This is not news. But so what? It’d be hot.”
“Not hot. Freudian. Twisted. Maybe even illegal in some states. I can’t do it.”
“Oh, but I think you can.”
“You know I love saying yes to you, baby, but not this time.”
“I just want to see what it tastes like—just once.”
“Then take a sip from one of the bottles when I’m done pumping.”
“No, I’m not craving the milk itself. I wanna see what it feels like to suck warm fluid directly out of your body—to taste juices created by your body, right from the source.” I shudder visibly, suddenly totally turned on.
She looks at me like I’m demented.
“What? What’s weird about that? I wanna feel your nipple in my mouth and suck on it and feel warm, sweet liquid gushing into my mouth—totally normal.” I shudder again. “Oh, man, I just gave myself a woody.”
“You’re not normal.”
“Again, this is not news.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not gonna breastfeed my husband.”
“I don’t want to breastfeed. This isn’t about some sort of infant-role-play. I’m a grown man with a hard-on who wants to give his wife’s nipple a good, strong suck and get a happy surprise. That’s a sex act, baby, all the way, especially considering how limited my choices are for another four fucking weeks.”
“When there’s milk involved, it’s not sexual. When there’s milk squirting out of the nipple you’re sucking on, that’s called breastfeeding.”
“No, just because there happens to be a warm and delicious bonus at the end of the suck doesn’t change the essence of the sex act. It’s still sexual. One hundred percent.”
“No, there absolutely nothing sexual about sucking milk out of your wife’s breast.”
“That’s a patently false statement. Did you know that oxytocin, the hormone that releases during orgasm, is the exact same hormone that releases during breastfeeding? Coincidence? I think not. ‘Nature does nothing in vain.’”
“Plato?”
“Aristotle.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t question Aristotle, Sarah. Or God, for that matter. He must have had an excellent reason for making breastfeeding feel orgasmic.”
Sarah looks down at her chest and grimaces—milk has suddenly begun gurgling out of her breasts and down the front of her nightgown. “Look what you just did, Jonas P. Faraday, just by saying the words ‘feel orgasmic.’” She motions to herself, exasperated. “Darn you.” She opens the flaps of her soaking-wet nursing nightgown, pulls out her huge breasts and tantalizingly dark nipples, and positions them into the pump. “Just accept it—you’re not gonna get your way.” She juts her chin at me. “Suck on that.”
I can’t help but laugh. I love it when my baby’s indignant and sassy.
I prop my head with my elbow and watch her with utter fascination. “That’s so cool,” I say. “Your abundantly flowing ta-tas are mesmerizing me.”
She flips the switch on the pump, rolling her eyes at me as she does—and instantly, her entire body visibly relaxes the same way it does right after orgasm. The minute milk begins squirting out of her and into the bottles attached to the pump, she lets out a loud moan of pleasure and relief.
My hard-on twitches. That moan is the exact same noise Sarah makes whenever my hard-on slides into her after a lot of foreplay. “So fucking hot,” I say.
“You’re insane. It’s not hot. I’m being milked like a cow. Moo. Would you like some cream with your coffee, sir? Mooooo.”
“No, it’s hot, trust me. You’re a goddess. Mo
ther Earth. I love it.” My hard-on is beginning to throb.
“You’re a sicko.”
“You know what? You need to get rid of your stupid hang-ups. They’re just holding you back.”
“My stupid hang-ups? Jonas, if we asked one hundred people on the street, they’d all say what you want to do is totally weird, if not disgusting.”
“Well, good thing we’re not asking one hundred people on the street. I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. If it turns us on, who the fuck cares what anyone else thinks?”
“Well, that’s the thing. It doesn’t turn us on. It turns you on.”
There’s a long beat.
Oh.
Well, shit.
I guess I just assumed that when something turns me on like a motherfucker, it turns her on, too. Fuck me. If she’s not gonna get off on this, then I sure as hell won’t.
She twists her mouth. “Although, turning you on always turns me on,” she adds, exhaling with resignation.
I grin broadly.
She actually looks like she’s seriously considering it for a second. “No,” she finally says. “I can’t do it.”
“Aw, baby, don’t get all hung up on what’s normal. Who cares? I gotta know what you taste like. With that skin of yours, I bet you taste like the finest latte. Or maybe a caramel macchiato.”
She’s suppressing a smile.
“Come on, baby. A one-time thing.”
She exhales again, and suddenly, she looks really fatigued to me. She closes her eyes, still holding the pump to her breasts.
The enormity of my assholery crashes down on me all at once. She’s exhausted. She’s on pain meds. She’s been dragging her aching body to the hospital every day since we’ve been home for hours on end to visit the babies. Jesus. She’s still fucking bleeding, for Chrissakes. “You know what?” I say. “This is a conversation for another day. I’m not going anywhere and neither are your massive, milk-infused ta-tas.”
She opens her eyes and looks down at her boobs. “They really are massive. These suckers need their own freaking zip code.” She half-smiles at me. Yeah, she looks absolutely exhausted.
I move closer to her and stroke her cheek. “Do you need anything, baby? Anything at all?”
“Some water, please?”
“Coming right up.”
“And maybe some Oreos?”
I grin at her. “Oreos, it is.”
“With milk for dunking?”
“No problem, baby.”
“Thank you.” She closes her eyes again. She looks ready to pass out.
I pull up her nightgown slightly to reveal her angry C-section scar and kiss it gently. She runs her hand through my hair and my cock jolts at her touch.
“I love you, Jonas,” she says softly.
I kiss every inch of her scar before leaping up to head to the kitchen. “I love you, too, wifey.” I look up. “More than I ever thought humanly possible.”
Chapter 27
Jonas
“Here you go, baby,” I say, returning from the kitchen. Sarah’s hands are both engaged with the breast pump, so I place the water, milk and Oreos I’ve brought for her on the nightstand.
“Thank you,” she says softly. Oh man, she looks worn out.
I sit back down on the bed, mesmerized as the two bottles attached to her pump get filled to the brim with Sarah’s creamy milk.
“What time are you going to the hospital tomorrow?” I ask.
“My mom’s picking me up at ten.”
“I’ll meet you there at ten-thirty or so. I’ve got a morning meeting. Some more potential gyms.”
“Great.” She closes her eyes again, obviously beginning to drift off.
I watch her for a long beat, admiring the shape of her lips, the bridge of her nose, the smoothness of her skin. She shifts her position in the bed and one of her smooth thighs peeks out from under her short nightgown. I reach out and touch it and exhale a long, shaky breath as my dick begins hardening.
Her eyes are closed. The breast pump is doing its thing. She’s obviously down for the count.
I hop up from the bed and lurch toward the bathroom.
“Whatcha doing?” she asks softly.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” I say.
“Now?” She looks at the clock. It’s just after 3:00 a.m.
“Yup,” I say. “Now.” I turn around and motion to the raging hard-on that’s straining behind my boxers.
“Oh.” She smiles. “Have fun, you two.”
“I can’t be in your presence for five minutes and not get turned on.”
She motions toward the breast pump. “Well, who could blame you?”
I cross the room back to her and kiss her forehead. “You’re the goddess and the muse, Sarah Cruz. Every inch of you turns me on.” I kiss her lips gently. “Every single, delicious drop of you gets me off.”
She smiles. “Charm me all you like, but I’m not gonna breastfeed you.”
I smirk, kiss her again, and bound toward the bathroom, aching to relieve my cock.
“Shake it for me, baby,” she calls after me.
I shake my ass for her, just before entering the bathroom.
“Hawt!” she calls out behind me.
In the shower, I turn on the water as hot as my skin can withstand and lather myself with shower gel.
Holy fuck, I wanna suck Sarah’s tits and taste her in a whole new way. There’s no doubt I’ve got a raging Oedipal complex, but so what? I don’t give a fuck. There are worse issues to have. Much worse. Man, I wanna suck that beautiful nipple of hers and get a sweet surprise.
I wash my hair and then stand under the hot water for a couple minutes, rinsing my hair, letting the hot water flood me.
If I’m depraved and fucked up, if this is some sort of fetish that other men don’t have, then I’m fine with that. Fuck it. I love the taste of that woman—and if some new flavor presents itself—especially a new flavor spurting out of a dark, erect nipple mounted atop a bountiful, glorious breast—oh, fuck, I just made my cock jolt—then I sure as hell want to give it a guzzle. Fuck yeah.
I reach down and exhale with relief at the sensation of my own touch.
Sarah.
She’s home. She’s safe. Thank God.
And so fucking hot. Hotter than ever. A fucking Botticelli.
Oh, man, that olive skin of hers on my crisp white sheets gets me every time.
I work my shaft up and down, letting my mind wander.
I begin to visualize everything I always do when I begin jacking myself off. Sarah’s mouth on my cock. Sarah’s erect nipple in my mouth. Sarah sitting on my face, her sweet pussy in my mouth. Sarah making her “O” face—the extra sexy one she only recently started making after I finally figured out how to get her to orgasm simultaneously through her clit and G-spot, together. Oh, fuck, that was a happy day. Oh, yeah, I’m already getting close. That’s what two weeks without sex will do to a guy. Fuck.
I move on to imagining Sarah’s tattooed ass cheek. “Propiedad de Jonas Faraday,” it says. Property of Jonas Faraday. Fuck yeah. Oh, yeah, fuck, yes, that’s doing the trick. Fuck you, Will—Sarah’s mine. Oh my God. Yes. Fuck yes. Fuck you, motherfucker. You want to fuck my wife? Well, you can’t, cocksucker. You wanna give my wife the ‘best orgasm of her life’? Fuck you, fuckwad. That’s my job—my fucking religion, motherfucker. My art.
My cock is lurching, straining to erupt. Yes. I’m right on the cusp.
I move on to imagining the granddaddy fantasy, the one that always pushes me over the edge—Sarah in the grips of the most intense and concentrated pleasure she’s ever experienced, until, finally, blissfully, after fighting me, fighting herself, she pushes out rather than holding in and ejaculates forcefully smack into my face. Oh, yeah. Fuck yes. She ejaculates, splashing me all over my smiling face with warm, sweet fluid—and then I lick it up.
A staggering wave of pleasure wells up inside of me and releases forcefully.
Fuck.
Motherfucker.
Oh my fucking God.
I shudder with an aftershock. And then another one.
Whew.
I stand with my forehead against the tile, letting the water rain down my back for a very long time.
Oh my God. I want that. I. Want. That. I want it so bad I can almost taste the deliciousness of her cum in my mouth right now. I lick my lips at the phantom flavor of melted whipped cream on my tongue. I want that and I’m going to get it, no matter what.
Why the fuck can’t I get my little Mount Everest to squirt? There’s no physiological reason—every woman, including Sarah, has the biological anatomy necessary to ejaculate—it’s an objective fact—and it’s not me—I’ve gotten multiple women to squirt before. Which means whatever the hell’s stopping Sarah is all in her head. Her body’s built to do it, just like anyone else’s—I’ve just got to figure her out.
Again.
It’s all about pushing past her newest perceived limitations, whatever hang-ups are holding her back. I’ve just got to teach her it’s okay to go there. That there’s nothing she could do that would turn me off. That’s exactly what I’ve done these past three years, slowly but surely—and I’ve managed to get her to towering heights in her sexuality. I’ll just have to do it again regarding this. I just have to rewire her brain.
I lean my forehead against the marble wall of the shower and let the hot water stream down my back.
She’s ready to do it; I know she is. She’s standing on the edge of a new abyss. Right on the fucking edge. I just have to figure out how to push her off.
I’ve got a solid four weeks before I can fuck her, and probably a bit of time after that before she’s completely back to being “Orgasma the All-Powerful” again. Until then I just have to be patient with her. Make her understand how badly I hunger for her, no matter what she does. I put my mouth into the stream of hot water for a minute and drink down a large gulp of hot water, imagining it’s Sarah’s cum.
I have to hit her with something brand new, that’s all. Something she’s never experienced before. As Aristotle said, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” I have to take her out of her habit. I’ve got to hit her with new stimulation, new fantasies, get her to exercise new sexual muscles to create muscle confusion, the same way I do during a workout. Yeah, that’s it. A whole new set of sexual stimulations to achieve a whole new set of reactions.
