My Wife's Rack

My Wife's Current Double-D Cleavage

My wife's boobs have become jugs.

She's always had a sweet rack, but her bosom has become especially scrumptious now that it's in the dairy bar business. It's like a temporary breast augmentation without silicone, and I admit that the change speaks to me on a basic level.

Naturally, there are those who might suggest that my appreciation taints the holy relationship at the heart of the change -- the purpose of her inflated tits being to serve as an alimentary lifeline for our month-old son, of course. Nevertheless my wife and I have never been ones to deny the earthier aspects of the reproductive process, so neither of us feel that my knocker-inspired lust is an element of pollution. Rather, it demonstrates the great interconnectedness of things for it is conceivable that her mammary swelling may be designed to a dual purpose: to feed the child and to retain my fascination.

I have always had a weakness for feminine curves. It can't be denied.

I remember a swarthy Turkish girl in life-drawing class whose ample assets were sufficient to keep my eyes glued to her throughout our sketching sessions rather than on the naked model posing in the centre of the room. I was willing to overlook various deficits for the love of her hips and lamps, including but not limited to her overall hairiness and the fact that she was too shy to speak to me. I awaited with relish the moments in which she would lean over her artboard to scrub out unwanted lines, the brisk motion of the erasure transmitted in undulating waves through her swaying melons.

I wonder what her name was.

The first time I dated a girl with C-sized orbs I honestly felt like their first unclad presentation should've been heralded by trumpets and drums. I was very impressed at first, but ultimately dissappointed because she wasn't a "breast girl" -- in other words, while I derived great satisfaction from playing with those wondrously gravity-defying teenage skin pillows she derived little or none. She sported a freckled bust with nipples of such a pale pink that they almost matched the rest of her skin. I enjoyed watching her shower.

I've nibbled on A; I've squished B; I've cavorted with C; but my favourite remains D.

I married a girl with D cups -- a girl titillated when I play with her D cups -- and I think it's a wonderful bonus that for a while after expelling children she goes Double-D. She may be too tired to mambo with me as often as either of us would ideally like, but at least when she does it's pornotastic.

(The less squeamish of you may wonder whether or not there's a lot of milk involved. There isn't. In order for my wife to serve dairy she needs to be in the appropriate mood. To express milk for later consumption she must close her eyes and pretend she's feeding the baby instead of a noisy little battery-powered suckbot. When we're feeling frisky, in contrast, the milk stays put.

(For the purposes of scientific investigation I did taste my wife's milk shortly after the birth of our daughter. It was sweeter than I had expected, like tea mixed by a kid. Not bad at all.))

The infant screams with colic and the house is a mess; our daughter throws tantrums for want of attention and I'm exhausted from my new job; creditors loom and my paycheques come in too slowly to appease them -- and yet it is hard to be chagrined when I can bury my face in my wife's expanded cleavage, lost somewhere between hard nipple and milk-taut swell. As in so many other situations, it is important to stop and smell the roses.

Hurrah for hooters, I say. Hurrah!

So say we all.


The BS said...

Hurrah indeed.

Maybe you should take this opportunity to make yourself one of these: http://www.csc-lan.de/FreezeFreaks/projects/bwp/worklog.html

Simon said...

It seems to be intimated that Littlestar's physical recovery from the trauma that was childbirth has been rather more expeditious than that of my own darling spouse. Suffice to say that 'Lest We Forget' still has, for me, greater connotation than that strictly applied to 11th November.

Ah well, all things in time.

At least I can say that my wife's tits are bigger than your wife's tits. Which, frankly, is in terribly bad taste and a short lived victory anyway: she'll be getting a reduction after Number Two is weaned since we're done with the having kids thing now.

Farewell, marvellous mammaries; I feel I knew you not o'er well!

Moksha Gren said...

Thanks for the informative tour. Our first child is due in late July/early August and I too have been enjoying it as her...cups runneth up the alphabet. However, I had been wondering when this type of fun would start to get messy. Thanks for the peace of mind.

After I read you blog, I mentioned what I had learned to my lovely wife. She smiled and replied, "Yeah, I know. In fact, if you had been reading some of the books we have stacked here next to our bed...you'd have known that too." I could only stammer and try to explain that all the really important stuff gets covered by Cheeseburger. She was not impressed by my logic.

But she patiently explained that while my playing with her tits won't make milk appear...her thinking about her baby with no suckling at all very well could. I know you already know this...but that little fact was stunning to me. Breasts are truly amazing things. Form and Function; Food and Fun. Hurrah, hurrah!

And now, if you'll excuse me...I have some reading to catch up on.

Cheeseburger Brown said...


Strangely, my wife has recovered this second (harder, much more traumatic) birth much more quickly than the second (two pushes and out she comes!) birth. Who can figger it?


Just wait until your wife's bosom starts shooting milk when she hears a crying baby on TV -- it's a weird system.

The BS,



Cheeseburger Brown said...

To read more comments inspired by this post, including discussions of misogyny, objectification and civility, please see:





Cibbuano said...

Enjoy them while you've got them Cheese...

I, too, once dated a girl with fantastic C-cups, but got little to no pleasure from them. It was unbearably frustrating - I wanted to spend hours with them, but she'd just give me that look, like I was a bizarre alien who she couldn't comprehend..

Anastasia said...

yey, you know it's invigorating to read a male's view on boobies after childbirth and it's wonderful to see that you're highly appreciative of those jugs :D and I say this, because breastfeeding has it's good moments, but it have it's niggly moments where women, sometimes feel that they're breasts aren't their own (because they're a dairy factory, yes).

StanTheMan said...

Your son might not like what your wife is eating. It might not be colic. My daughter can not have cow milk, she is nursing her daughter and the same for her son. The grandkids can not have cow milk.
I did enjoy sucking on my first wife breast also when there was milk. Like you I am also a boob man. But her were on the short side of A cup.

Jasmine said...

eh...i'm only 15 and that was REALLY STRANGE...but satisfying...i always wondered...wow...how did your son feel?