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Big Dick

I am again so grateful to this site for the freedom to express unusual or confusing experiences around some intimate topics that I at last feel able to share my own story. I hope it might help others gain understanding in similar circumstances.


My name is Alison and I am 44 years of age from Brighton. I’m a Human Resources manager with a big chemical company and I’ve been happily married for 22 years to Stephen, a Science Teacher. We have three children: two sons aged 21 and 20 and a daughter aged 18. Her name is Jane. It won’t surprise frequenters of this site that my story chiefly concerns Jane and me.

My husband and sons are all avid football fans, in the habit of colonising the front room whenever important matches are on involving league and national teams. At times like that, Jane and I will often go out or else retreat to other parts of the house just to get away from all the football and the endless male chat.

At the start of one recent international game, we used the excuse of Stephen’s niece’s impending wedding to withdraw to my bedroom with a laptop to look at dresses and things that we might consider wearing to the event. I sat on my big King-sized bed with the computer on my lap and Jane heaved up beside me, the football noise from the front room a good way off. It was all very casual and desultory as we surfed the dress and designer frock internet pages chatting about what we might each wear and commenting mostly negatively on the latest trends and fashions. It was a summer wedding and the dresses were bright and airy and we actually liked some of the colourful ones available for both teenage girls and middle-aged mums. Inevitably, our surfing of clothes sites took us to some underwear pages and looking at the models we chatted and joked about the undies that would go with the dresses we’d been viewing and the shapes and poses of some of the models.

Perhaps this is a good point to say something about the appearance of each of us. I always think of myself as a typical modern mum, I suppose. I try to keep a reasonable appearance but make compromises keeping pace with the speed of family life and the demands of work. I’m a 5’4 brunette with brown eyes; about 11stones (I know-a bit overweight), dress size 14 and with a reasonable figure of 36d-30-38. I suppose I’m what would be called ‘curvy’ (though I’ve seen much curvier), with a full bust and a bottom bigger and rounder than I’d like it to be. I also have a bit of a mummy-tummy after 3 children. I’ve liked my chest since my teens and been aware that in these breast-obsessed times I’ve always got second looks and the occasional man whose eyes wander over my top in a conversation. Beneath, I have large dark brown nipples and broad areolae made big by nursing at length three healthy children and a down-below as natural as it was at adolescence.

Some people tell me Jane is my double. I’m not so sure, but certainly could see the resemblance as she became more of a proper young woman. Jane is a bit shorter than me but with my hair and eyes. At 18, I could see she would have some of my challenges around weight later on. She developed early and by 18 was sitting on the cusp of 34d, with a dress size of 12 and a full round rear which cutely filled out dresses and jeans. I’d actually given her brother Michael a fierce row for embarrassing her by joking about her ‘knockers’, yet another childish euphemism for a girl’s breasts. Jane was blossoming nicely into the classic British brunette and I knew would have no problems attracting boys, even though nothing serious seemed to have emerged as yet.

Inevitably our girl-talk exiled in the room together and surfing the M&S undies pages moved on to some light-hearted girly breast-chat about bra preferences, sizes and lingerie sets-complementing some of the models on their choices, mocking some of the others for their poor judgement. Once or twice my eyes widened a little as Jane observed enthusiastically ‘Oh she’s nice’ or ‘I think she is really lovely in that, Mum’. But I just attributed it to typical teen enthusiasm for pretty things.

There was a period of silence then, with the faint sound of the football offstage. The room was warm and I suppose I could vaguely sense Jane lying alongside me looking drowsily at the laptop, until I was sure she had dozed off. I began to look more closely at some of the bras that would do for the dresses I’d seen for the wedding and bookmarked some pages. I suppose I only became gradually conscious of what I thought was Jane’s sleeping head at my bosom. But then the pressure at my top and bra cup became more obvious and I glanced down to see Jane, eyes closed, moving her head very slowly around the shape of my breast through my clothes. Assuming she had just drifted off absently, I said ‘Jane?…Jane?…What are you doing?’

Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Oh nothing Mum. Sorry. Just cuddling.’

She looked up at the screen. ‘Oh that’s a lovely bra, Mum. You’d look great in that.’ I found my cheeks colouring slightly, which surprised me, but I kept my eyes tightly on the screen. Jane appeared to nod off again beside me.

I suppose I was now a bit more conscious of her beside me. And that made me very alert when, again, I felt her head moving against casino oyna my breast-shape. It was different this time. More deliberate. More pressure on my actual bust. More movement.

‘Jane,’ I said bewilderedly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Told you. Just cuddling, Mum. Just having a nuzzle.’

‘A nuzzle?’ I smiled indulgently but puzzledly. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit big for a nuzzle?’ Her eyes opened more widely.

‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked plaintively. I blushed more deeply again at the unexpected honesty of her question.

‘Yes, Jane, it’s nice, of course, but…’ She interrupted me.

‘Keep looking at the bra girls, Mum. Don’t mind me.’

This response confused me and I blinked heavily, returning my gaze to the screen. For a moment Jane just rested there and I assumed everything was settling. Then her head returned to my bosom again and this time I felt a more focused intention in her movements. It was as though she had ‘discovered’ my full shape with her motions and I felt her mouth slide more calculatingly over the edges of my right breast. For the first time I felt my nipple stir in response to her actions and was almost certain-without looking-that she was actually applying her tongue.

‘Jay-ayyne,’ I said, a little anxiously. ‘What do you think you are up to?’ She looked up innocently, her face assuming a younger, more unaware appearance.

‘Nothing, Mum. Just being affectionate lying here. Your boob is nice and warm.’ That was the first time she had used that word and it just added to my uncertainty. Without elaborating on her comment, she then just cuddled in and was soon pressing and pushing at my right breast equally slowly but much more obviously.

I breathed deeply, telling myself that this was just one of those adolescent things and preparing my strategy for disengaging without upsetting her. Before I could act, Jane had pre-empted matters and was very slowly raising the edge of my tank top above my bosom, exposing my white lacy bra cup. This time I did look down properly and was amazed to see how openly her teenage tongue was working my nipple through my bra fabric-circling, flicking, enveloping-until, almost despite myself, I felt a first unmistakeably sexual shiver pass down my spine. Her tongue was also wetting my bra cup, so that my big nipple began to stand out proud through the lace.

‘Ohh, Jane,’ I sighed. ‘What on earth are you…?’ She interrupted me.

‘I’m just cuddling, Mum, honestly I am. Don’t you like it?’

‘Oh…Jane…well…no…yes…Look, it’s nice and tender and…I…but it’s not what…’

My words were breaking up like a bad cellphone signal, but they were silenced completely when Jane opened her mouth more fully and enveloped my elongated nipple through the lacy fabric of my bra. I then felt the deep ‘draw’ of her suckling on my whole breast.

‘Oh…shit…Jane…’ I mumbled, ‘…that’s…’

‘That’s what, Mum?’ she replied.

‘That is really pretty nice…,’ I answered in a low voice, her actions prompting me to turn more fully round to her so that my breast rounded out my cup, my nipple filled her mouth more completely and the laptop slipped from my knee on to the bed behind me. Jane seemed to read this as a signal, even though it was no way intended as such. While continuing to suckle me through my cup, her right hand moved back to my tank top and began raising it above my left breast, revealing both cups and more of my bra. Her right hand began gingerly to fondle my other breast, almost immediately raising my left nipple to a matching womanly hardness.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ I whispered, ‘you are a bold girl, Jane Matthews, touching your distracted Mum like this.’

I could almost imagine her smiling in response, but her eyes were closed and her suckling of my nipple incredibly concentrated and singleminded. For the first time, I stroked her hair as she suckled, feeling a wave of maternal love pass through me.

‘Oh Jane…you’re so beautiful. So naughty doing that, but so beautiful.’ This time I did see a soft dreamy smile, but it did not distract her from her task. Instead, I felt the movement of her hand at my left breast changing-from quite hesitantly touching my breast through my cup, to moving beneath my bra and trying to push it upwards over my bust from the wiring. I stroked her head again.

‘It’ll not go that way, Jane,’ I whispered. ‘I would need to unclip it. I don’t think I should do that…’

Perhaps in reaction to that comment, she extended her tongue more deliberately, allowing me to see how it was moving teasingly yet greedily around my nipple.

‘Oh shit…’ I mumbled responding inadvertently to the sensation. ‘Just this once…and only this…’ I reached round with my left hand, found my bra clasp and with a click smoothly opened the three hooks.

The release of tension was palpable. Unsupported, my breasts felt large and tender and-I had to admit-aroused, the lace of my bra cups crinkling at Jane’s mouth; the shoulder straps falling carelessly down my arms

‘Oh God, Jane,’ I found myself muttering as her ‘petting’ hand predictably pulled my bra downwards and for the first moment in this mad, unimaginably forbidden scene my full womanly breast was bared. ‘Sweet, dear canlı casino God…’

Her hand was expert, for within a moment her suckling had briefly stopped and, very deliberately, she pulled my bra away completely from my breasts and-as I continued leaning round towards her-exposed both nipples, which, I had to acknowledge to myself, were now huge. She smiled up at me, her cheeks flushed.

‘You’ve got great knockers, Mum,’ she said eyes twinkling, mimicking her brother’s tease of her from a few weeks before. Then I had found the word coarse and annoying. In this context, it felt strangely exciting. I smiled.

‘You like my knockers..?’ I said, looking down at my breasts. ‘Are they nice ones, Jane?’

‘They’re wonderful, Mum,’ she replied, cupping them gently with her upturned fingers, returning her mouth to my right nipple.

‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ I repeated, feeling her suckling of my enlarged braless nipple even more sexual than before. I joined my hand to hers instinctively, shaping my breast as I would for her dad, accentuating my already engorged nippleshape. Her mouth moved to my left breast, equally tender and hungry. I found myself cupping both breasts as she nursed intently on each nipple. She paused again for another moment, whispering.

‘Mum, take off your top…’ I felt almost panicky.

‘Oh Jane. I can’t. I can’t. Your dad…the boys…they could come in…’

‘They won’t. There is ages to go in their football match. Lock the door.’

My mind was racing.

‘I’ll need to say something to them…wait a moment.’

I drew away, pulling my top down to cover my breasts. Walking from the bedroom to the lounge, no longer experiencing any actual stimulation, I thought how truly mad all this was and toyed with just locking myself in the bathroom till my feelings and Jane’s had died down. But propelled by my dreamy sense of purpose, and aware of how swollen and prominent my breasts looked, I just opened the lounge door and popped my head in.

I barely registered with them. All eyes were on the TV and I noted the second half of the football game was about to begin. Stephen did look up briefly, smiling.

‘Hello you,’ I said, smiling as best I could; trying to look ‘normal’. ‘Is it a good game?’

‘Very tense, babes,’ Stephen answered, unaware of the meanings that word had right now, but conscious from experience that I had no interest in football.

‘Jane and I are just trying on a few things for the wedding,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘So the door’s locked. Okay?’

‘Oh sure, honey. I’m sure you’ll both look fab whatever you wear.’

Stephen was such a good man, but I could tell he wanted back to the football game. I smiled again, wanly, and closed the door.

It occurred to me that perhaps minus our actual contact, Jane’s feelings might have subsided a bit. But when I walked into the bedroom, she was keeling on the bed in anticipation, her face youthful, flushed and eager. I smiled at her, feeling myself re-entering our shared dream. While she looked, I snibbed the door handle, locking the door, then turned around, slowly raising my top. I raised it over my head deliberately, drawing it through my tossing hair, making myself topless for my daughter.

‘My big knockers…’ I said again, my breasts feeling strangely larger and more swollen than I could quite remember. That amazing feminine, breastproud sensation of being topless.

‘Oh Mum…,’ was all she could muster, but as I drew towards her, my breasts jiggling, her hands shot up vertical into the air. At first I wondered what the gesture meant, then memories of her girlhood came swiftly back to me.

‘Jane…’ I said, filled with love for her. I moved close to her and began lifting her sweater smoothly over her head. She felt limp and dependent. Her hands fell to her side as I knelt beside her on the bed, gingerly opening her white blouse-slowly, trembling, button by button.

‘You’re shaking, Mum.’

‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before…’

As her white lacy M&S bra became visible, I felt another deep sexual surge pass through me. I opened her blouse and slipped it from her pale shoulders, on to which her long hair fell. Seeing in her in her pretty bra, my heart leaped.

‘Oh, Jane…you’re big…’ She smiled demurely, but with her shoulders moving imperceptibly back and her bust pressing outwards.

‘This one’s a d-cup Mum. Most of them are now.’

‘Oh just like me…’ I replied.

‘Yes, Mum. We’re big girls.’

‘We’re big girls,’ I echoed.

I ran my hands slowly over her cups, feeling her breathe and sensing the tight straining bra-fabric around her breasts; the visibility of her nippleshapes; the pattern of her long brown hair scattered over her straps. I reached around her, my breasts touching her cups, and unclipped her bra methodically. It felt so, so maternal and natural somehow, like undressing a child for bed. Drawing her bra away from her breasts, she jiggled slightly and I drew back, gazing.

‘Dear Jesus. You are just beautiful Jane.’ She smiled embarrassedly.

Her bare breasts were large and firm and pale; tight and round in her teenage busty shape. Her nipples were beige coloured and very stiff, kaçak casino bathed in large areolae.

‘Our knockers…’ she repeated. I looked at her hesitantly.

‘Our big knockers,’ I answered, amplifying her eroticism and taking full possession of the word. Her eyes opened wide at my obvious arousal. I drew my shoulders back deliberately like a model, a new surge of breastpride passing through my body. I had quite honestly never felt bigger and my brown nipples were at a size and prominence I had not known since breastfeeding my children-one of whom was now topless in front of me, inches from my breasts. Our passion began to rise demonstrably, but governed still by that sensual loving tenderness of mother and daughter.

‘God, I love my breasts…’ I muttered. Jane smiled back at me, momentarily hunching her shoulders self-consciously.

‘I love mine too, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’ve never felt like this before. They feel…amazing…’

I leaned forward very hesitantly, still half expecting her to draw away. Our naked breasts touched a few seconds before our lips met. Many times had I kissed my Jane, mother to daughter. But never like this. There was an instant heightened sensuality in our lips, as if we were each half-afraid of what might overtake us. We brushed, withdrew; brushed, withdrew; smiling and blushing self-consciously; gazing dreamily on one another’s shapes. Although Jane had started all this, she was slowly yielding the lead to me, an experienced and sexually mature adult, acquainted with the secrets of bedroom love.

I placed my hand at the back of her head and tilted it, so that her mouth was angled to mine. Then our lips met in the softest, most sensual of encounters. It was so different from kissing her Dad-and my first ever kiss of another female. Almost simultaneously, we each let out a low moan of mutual desire, before our tongues touched in a lingering liquid tangle of urgent deep-mouthed probing.

While our mouths discovered one another, my hands returned more calculatingly to the cusp of her plump underbreasts, delicately cupping and cradling her at that tender swell men’s hands so often neglect. I heard her almost yelp like a kitten as I moulded her pale breastflesh with my fingers and pressed the curve of her breasts to the curve of mine-a surge moving through both of us as our enlarged nipples met and pressed and met again.

‘Wait, Mum,’ she said calmly. She drew back a little and at first I could not see why, but with my big breasts hanging pendulous, Jane leaned forward and for one impossibly delicate moment took my left nipple into her mouth and suckled hungrily. Her large puppy eyes were fixed looking upwards on mine as she then switched to my right nipple and did the same.

‘Jesus Jesus Christ,’ I found myself hiss-whispering to her as my nipples simply blossomed to a size and arousal I had not dreamed of before. I felt huge and busty and exposed before her, an almost Page Three Girl topless vanity radiating through me.

‘Now you suckle me, Mum,’ she said, her voice firm but faltering with nervousness and excitement. ‘Do the same to me.’

My eyes widened, staring at my very own daughter’s flushed and swollen breasts: her pale nipples thimble-hard and engorged. The thought passed through me again, that I had never ever before done anything like this. Now here I was at 44, about to taste another girl’s breasts. And they were my daughter’s.

I tilted my head, move downwards to her bust and latched on gingerly to her right nipple. Jane moaned deeply again as I instinctively suckled, her nipple simply blooming in my mouth; the sound of my suckling intensifying our shared arousal as I exaggerated the sticky noises with my lips. Like her, I did not linger, because I sensed she wanted more and moved deftly to her left nipple. She too shaped her breast with her hand, her instinctive maternal gestures mingling with our unleashed and forbidden desires, and I felt Oh sweet dear God, I am being nursed by my own daughter! The sensation was dizzying. Alison’s nipples were startlingly big: pale and pointed and gleaming from my saliva. We were now at the stage of intuiting one another’s half-formed and hesitant desires and I just knew we both wanted our suckled breasts to come together again in a sensual embrace.

The loss of inhibition was obvious, as we drew level again with each other and clasped each other’s shoulders aligning our heavy busts. This time when our breasts met they pressed together urgently and the wetness of our nipples allowed them to slide lasciviously over one another causing us both to release involuntarily low animal calls of arousal and need. We kissed deeply again, familiar now with one another’s mouths and sensitized to the fleshy connection of our bodies. We both had at our own ages and stages rounded womanly bellies and these too met and moved erotically against one another, intensifying the wondrous feelings in our breasts and prompting our hands to wander more adventurously over each other’s shapes. I ran my hands slowly and delicately from the outer curve of Jane’s breasts downwards, flitting softly over her tummy and stroking on each side the flare of her hips-which seemed pronounced and wide like my own. Jane copied me, her hands more inexpert than mine perhaps, caressing my mummytummy and resting uncertainly at the upper edges of my bumcurve. We looked in one another’s eyes again, as our hands stopped at the waistbands of our jeans.

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