Hungry, you call for me. No response.
You go room to room.
I am not there.
My phone goes unanswered, messages are not returned.
You feel ignored.
Nervous, you call others, timidly asking if they know where I am.
They do not. One even snorts and hangs up on you, not dignifying your request with even a dismissal.
Eventually, you go to bed. Stomach gnawing in more than one way.
You drift, fingers twitching, wanting to cradle my engorged mammary.
Suddenly, you feel my weight, straddling you, knocking you from your uneasy slumber.
Silently, you stare up at me. Angry, horny, lonely, eager.
Pulling off my sweater, taking off my shirt, I am stripped to a bra and tank top.
My areolas are outlined, in the damp circles from my leaking milk.
Your cock springs to life, causing you to gasp.
Reaching your hands for me caused your face to get slapped the last time, so you wait.
Slowly I take off my top and bra.
I stuff the damp part of one of the cups in your mouth and command you to suck it.
You do. You do anything I tell you to.
With a small smile, I replace the fabric with my right nipple.
Then I switch, allowing you to drain the other breast.
Content and full, you ask me why I was not home when you arrived.
I slap your mouth as my reply.
Your training never ends.
