The Storm — Theodore Stroud
CHAPTER 2: Heather
Heather hummed happily to herself, dusting the top shelves of the cedar bookshelf in the study. A year ago, she would have appreciated the collection. Books dating back to the 19th century lined the shelves. Priceless original copies from the Transcendentalists lined the shelves. A signed copy of In Our Time was tucked away neatly at the bottom.
The old Heather had been a book nerd. That Heather would have spent all night leafing through the fragile pages. She had gotten her master’s in literature at Boston University and had once been the editor for a prestigious literary journal. Heather had once been a respected scholar who was consistently invited to speak at universities around the country.
But that was then.
Now it was hard to focus much on anything. Not that she minded. Spending too much time thinking about one thing seemed silly to her. There were so many other things that she had to attend to.
“Speaking of which…” she said in a breathless tone.
She rushed hurriedly to the oven. The timer had started beeping. Hopefully she hadn’t burned the roast again. She was so silly sometimes! Not that her new husband minded. He always found ways to “punish” her in the bedroom.
Getting on her oven mitts, Heather reached in and gingerly grabbed the pan. Placing the roast on the stove, she used her voluptuous hip to slam close the oven door. Heather tossed the mitts on the counter and wiped her hands against her apron. The sudden motion caused her large breasts to jiggle gently. The feeling sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
Heather untied the apron and raised it above her head. She wore a low-cut white blouse that was almost see-through. It didn’t take much more than a casual glance to see the outline of her dark areola through the fabric. The blouse tented a bit around each breast, her nipples standing at attention. Two dark wet spots had formed while she had been cleaning.
Giggling, she stripped off her blouse and let it fall to the floor. Heather stood there, naked from the waist up, in the middle of the kitchen. Her heavy breasts were not contained in a bra. They rested about half way down her belly. A faint pink line ran from her navel belly button down to the waistline of her pencil skirt.
Heather firmly kneaded each breast, letting thin jets of milk squirt onto the kitchen floor. The release in pressure felt so good and made her snatch grow wet in anticipation. She gathered some discipline and stopped milking herself. Greg would be home soon and would be irritated with her if she was completely drained. He took it as his responsibility to help milk her in the evenings after he got finished with work.
A soft cry echoed from across the house, causing her nipples to once again bead with milk.
“Better take care of the little one!” she sang happily.
There was nothing better than being a mom. Well, maybe other than getting drilled by Greg.
Heather left the kitchen, resuming her humming from earlier. She didn’t bother to put back on her blouse.