I gave my wife the ick - on purpose
I'll never untaste this.
#12. Human Milk
Sometimes I like to give my wife The Ick for a laugh.
It brings me such joy to see her squirm. I don’t know why. She doesn’t mind if I speak with my mouth full, but she does mind (very much so) if I call dinner din-dins. I’ve always tiptoed the line between getting a cheap rise out of her and pushing it so far that some part of her love for me dies forever.
And so, as I prepared to lap up her breastmilk – or ‘mummy’s yummy booby juice’, as I put it, to her disgust – I worried if it might cause irrevocable damage to our marriage. What woman can stand to see her husband reduced to chugging breast milk like a baby? Meghan Markle perhaps? But few else.
Yes, this week’s adventure is disgusting and juvenile (more so than usual). But stay tuned! Next week I’m going to a book club - very fancy.
Regardless, I was keen to try it. Planning fifty-two new things in a year is demanding, and this was an easy win. Although in fairness, I suppose this was not technically my first time drinking breastmilk.1 Jasmine on the other hand, was less enthusiastic. It took her weeks to get round to it, with me constantly poking and squeezing her like a dairy cow’s battered old teat.
‘Why do I have to keep asking you for your breastmilk,’ I sighed. ‘Ive asked you at least six times.’
She informed me that this was not a normal argument that couples have, that she thought I was going to be clearer about when exactly I wanted it, and that next time I should use my big boy words.
‘Jasmine,’ I commanded. ‘I will not be spoken to like that. I am not a child. Now hurry up with my breast milk.’
Once the pump had stopped whirring, I cleansed my palate with Evian spring water (still, cold), and readied my notepad. I was taking this seriously. You could call me the AA Gill of breastmilk (or DD Gill, in my wife’s case).
I cleared my mind, nudged my nose into the bottle, and inhaled.
I was welcomed by a sweet, subtle aroma. It felt like the embrace of an old friend – warm, gentle, familiar. The smell was sweet and creamy with a touch of vanilla, like a Sicilian cannolo, or a freshly churned ice cream in the green hills of Somerset, faintly recalled from some distant memory.2
I was nervous. I stalled, making idle chit chat. There was something deep in my gut that didn’t want me to drink. Every time I brought the bottle to my lips, I stopped. After several attempts, I closed my eyes and gulped.
It was pleasant - at first. It tasted of rich and sugary milk; a high-quality cream. Then it hit me – a metallic tang that came alive at the back of my throat. It wasn’t a taste as such, but more of a sensation, something I had never experienced before, perhaps save for the taste of blood. This was clearly, obviously a bodily fluid, and my mouth knew it.
No, this was not for me, thank you.
I politely held back a retch, blinked for a minute, and passed the bottle back to my wife.
‘Thank you mummy.’
How about you - what’s the strangest animal’s milk you’ve ever imbibed?
By which I mean I’d drunk breastmilk as an infant, and not that I’d drunk it in adulthood as some kind of nappy-wearing sexual fetishist.
Again, just a regular memory, nothing to do with ABDL age play.