I’m a person who struggles a lot with eating, as I don’t really like food. I survive mostly off of nutrition shakes on the nights where I find myself unable to stomach anything else. So the idea of a woman going through the process of induced lactation to feed me is so heavenly. To clarify, I know this isn’t actually how it works, but this is a work of fiction inspired by the yearning fantasy of a girl with mommy issues.
Cw: breastfeeding and other mommy issue related ramblings
I come home after a long day, weary and tired. I have to eat but the last thing I want to do is have to force some food in my mouth. So I go to find her on the couch, reading.
“Mama?” My voice is sheepish and quiet. Not nervous, but just a little embarrassed by how badly I need this.
She puts her book down, peering up at me over her reading glasses. She smiles when she sees me. Despite my exhaustion, I can’t help but smile back.
“What is it, darling?” She asks, concerned when she recognizes my sorry state. “Come here, baby. Tell mama what you need.”
I walk over to the couch, resting my tired head on her shoulder. She takes my hand into her lap, running her thumb over my knuckles. Her brow pinches with concern. “Oh honeybee, you’re shaking. Have you eaten?”
I bury my face in her shoulder and shake my head. Of course she could tell immediately. My shaking always gives me away. It gets so much worse when I haven’t eaten.
“It’s okay, baby. We’ll get you some dinner. Maybe a sandwich? I have some leftover pasta in the fridge. I could butter up an English muffin if you’re not feeling well,” she lists, trying to come up with something that I might be able to stomach.
I wrap my arms around her, shaking my head against. “I can’t, mama,” I mumble into her shoulder.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she coos, kissing the my hair and cradling my head. “That’s okay. Mama’s got you. Come here. Lay down on my lap and we’ll get you all taken care of.”
I shift until I’m sitting across her lap, perpendicular to her with my legs draped across the couch cushions. She’s already sliding her shirt off, reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra. She pulls my head in close, nuzzling my nose against her soft skin.
“Go ahead, angel,” she croons, scratching my scalp with her pointed nails.
We both hum pleasantly as my lips wrap around her nipple, immediately starting to eagerly gulp down her milk. I am addicted to the taste: to the warm feeling of her essence sliding down my throat, warming my and nourishing me from the inside.
She chuckles. “Slow sips, angel,” she gently corrects. “Let your stomach adjust. You don’t want to get a tummy ache.”
I whine, but I obey, slowing to a rhythmic suckling that makes her toes curls. She has to close her eyes for a moment just to take a deep breath. “That’s it. Keep going. Just… just like that,” she stammers, tensing up against the couch. “You make mama feel so good when you do this, you know? Feeling your tongue and… knowing that I’m inside of you… filling you up… fuck… just knowing that you need me like this… and I can feed you from my own body… and make sure you stay full and healthy…”
It truly is so rewarding to her, to watch me grow instead of wither under her loving guidance. There is something about feeding me with something from her own body: knowing my body was growing from her, breaking down nutrients from the milk she supplied and using it to fuel me. I was hers even on a biological, cellular level.
My stomach rumbles, whining with the relief of being fed after going through the day empty. She lifts the hem of my shirt, splaying her fingers out over my soft torso.
“There you go,” she says. “Mama’s got plenty of milk, baby. Take as much as you need.”
My eyelashes flutter again her, tickling the soft skin of her chest. My eyelids are starting to droop and go heavy. She looks down to find my hands curled against my chest, doing soft kneading motions into the air like a kitten massaging its mother. Something about the warm milk, or maybe the soothing suckling, seems to lull me into a trance every time.
“Shhshsh,” she soothes, running her hands through my hair. She knows I might be exhausted after working all day. “Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Rest those tired eyes. Mama’s got you. I’ve got you and I’m never letting go.”
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