Her Beautiful Leaking Little Tits

Breastfeeding. Tis a wonderful thing.

Now as a man, I realise that saying such a thing might see me mistaken for a perve and a creep. Hell, it's pretty hard for a guy to espouse any praise for the natural act of a woman feeding an infant by the boob, as the natural assumption is that most guys can't separate their base sexual feelings from an appreciation of what is, very much, a natural and beautiful act.

Not that I'm saying I'm not a perve and a creep. I am those things, very much so.

I can't help it. I've been a fan of the boob for as far back as my muzzy memory stretches. I love boobs. I'm a boob man. A tit fan. And frankly, though I'm not at all proud to declare it, I'll default to stealing a glimpse of some boob even if there does happen to be a baby hanging off the end of it.

I know. I'm terrible. I'm ascribing a sexual objectivity to what is, first and foremost, an organ designed for and devoted to the rearing of young ones. I ought to be ashamed of myself – and I am, quite genuinely.

Unless I work really hard at it, I will often find myself, out of pure base instinct, whipping my head around at the merest glimpse of a breast bared in public – a breast bared not for my benefit, nor anyone else's benefit, aside of course from providing nourishment to the woman's offspring. I swear I have a radar for bared breasts. I see them beyond the corners of my eye, even if the poor woman is sitting directly behind me. Somehow, I know that a boob is out, and I find myself gawking at it before I can think to stop myself.

It has been a problem plaguing my entire adulthood, and for a long time I struggled to overcome the issue. At first I tried to overcompensate. If ever I should offend my own growing feminist sensibilities by ogling a breastfeeding woman in my company, I would make every effort to not look at her again – not at her boob, or even at any other part of her. She became invisible to me, like she was not even there. Which, on reflection, was of course simply dumb. I'd be unintentionally ostracising her from my conversation or attention, appearing to punish her for daring to feed her child in public. It was the last thing I wanted to do, of course, and yet there I was doing it.

Then there was the time I was in conversation with a new mother, who was also a good friend, when she casually popped out a boob and started feeding her baby right there, right in front of me. What did I do? Did I make it weird? But of course I fucking did – never in my life had I ever held such a fixed lock on eye contact with a person such as I did during the remainder of that conversation. I was so determined to not look at her boob, so determined to prove to myself, and perhaps to her too, that I could be better than a slobbering perve, that I once again made things weird and uncomfortable by tractor-beaming my gaze deep into her eyes, drilling with my irises into the very depths of her psyche and her soul. She looked uncomfortable, but I was dumb and stubborn and lacked the preparation or imagination to behave any better. Can't say I'm too proud of how I handled that one.

That was back in my youth, though. With time and practice, in more recent experiences of a similar boobs-out nature, I could brow-beat myself into performing a passing impression of a normal human being. In between all of these near-miss breastfeeding shenanigans, I also somehow managed to find myself a real nice lady who saw something in me worth sticking around for, and we went and made ourselves our own little squalling piece of progeny.

As part of that process, my missus – she has a name, her name is Shelly – joined a Mother's Group, a bit of a support and social network comprised of other new mums in our local area. And boy, if you were ever inclined to find a situation where bare boobs and breastfeeding abounded, go and find yourself a Mother's Group to hang around.

I came prepared. Fathers weren't verboten from the Mother's Group – just as it was for the ladies, for the lads it was also an ideal chance to make some new mates and remonstrate on the many joys of new fatherhood (sarcasm only mostly intended). Beyond a chance to hang out with new mates, in attending these Mother's Groups I knew there was only too great a certainty that one of these newly-met ladies would whip out a boob and stuff it into a bubba's gob. And I was determined not to be weird about it.

Come the day and time, and lo and behold, of course it was the hottest of all the other mums who first went and bared a breast. Her name is Heather, and just to add to the fun of everything, her hubby Chris was the bloke I'd best hit it off with and considered the closest of my new buddies.

So when I found myself watching Heather undoing her blouse and fixing to pull out the boob, I looked away. As one would do, if one had control of one's faculties and wasn't a horrible revolting perve. Happily, Heather's boobs weren't enormous – her baby's head, once in position, covered her up quite safely, to the extent that once she had her bub in place I felt free and safe to continue to regard Heather as per normal. I could safely look to her when she spoke, and I would look away when there was no other real reason to continue looking at her, just as I would if she didn't have a boob hanging free and easy out of her shirt. I was doing well, I thought to myself.

And as the coup de grace, the finishing touch to my efforts to pass myself off as something other than a vile and reprehensible turd of a person, I even chipped in to the conversation a couple of times when she spoke while she fed – fixing her easily in the eye, smiling lightly and normally, even cracking a joke at one point and making her laugh. All while she had a lovely, perky, really very nice boob out there in the open.

And it was nice. It felt natural and easy. I felt like I'd finally trumped my base villainy, like I perhaps might finally be considered a regular human being in the grand scheme of things. Not that it was entirely easy and natural for me, I still had to check myself as boobs came and went, I'd still have to work to present a normal façade during future meetings of mothers and baring of boobs. But to have come away from that initial challenge, without having caught a glimpse of my mate's wife's breast – either accidentally or intentionally – it felt good.

And you know what? It kind of felt like my effort was actually appreciated by Heather. It's hard to say how or why, but on some subtle wavelength it truly felt to me like Heather had recognised in me a fellow of fine quality – like maybe she had issued something of a challenge in baring her breast for those first few moments, a challenge that other men in that situation had failed; perhaps other blokes had gone for the gawping gawk at her bared bosom, or perhaps they had erred on the other side as I used to do in my youth, making such a show of 'look, I'm not looking!' that it became something of a sad spectacle.

From that point on, both Heather and Chris were nothing but effusive with their friendship, both towards me and Shelly my wife. As time went by the mother's group dwindled, some ladies going back to work, others fading away from the meetings due to any number of reasons. Similarly, other couples and groups had formed tighter-knit bonds of their own, eventually to the point where myself, Shelly, Heather and Chris found ourselves only really hanging out with each other.

And that was absolutely fine. Shelly and I did alright for ourselves and we had a nice little house in a good town, and we'd have Chris and Heather over every now and again for a meal and a laugh. But Chris and Heather seemed to be doing even better, with quite a large and very nice place up on a hill with a top view out over the ocean. It had spare bedrooms aplenty, and they kept large reserves of top-notch beer and wine too, which in combination made Saturday nights of boozing on at their house – with our bubs asleep and safely parked upstairs – a regular occurrence.

One such Saturday evening, nearly twelve months into our mutual parenthood, we had just made a start on the fun. The sun had not yet gone down and things were only just kicking on; Heather was giving her little girl her last feed of the night, my Shelly had our little tyke upstairs and was deep into the twenty-minute ritual of settling him down for a sleep, and Chris was down the bottom of the yard taking a business call. I was nursing my first cold beer, though Heather had not yet started drinking, not wanting to spike her baby's milk with alcohol.

Which made it all the more surprising when, on finishing feeding, Heather didn't immediately tuck her breast back into her top.

I looked. I couldn't help but look, a quick fleeing glimpse.

It was the first time I had truly caught a good look at our Heather. Her breasts weren't large like my Shelly's – think Jennifer Aniston and you've good a good analogue for Heather's breasts and general fine figure, where you need to stretch more to a Salma Hayek to get a better idea of Shelly.

Heather's boob: perky. No natural droop or sag to speak of whatsoever. Fulsome, flush with the swell of breastmilk. Adorned with a prominent nipple, smallish in diameter but tall and proud of the boob; it stood stiff and erect, possibly a result of the rush of a cool summer's ocean breeze upon her damp, exposed skin.

I felt guilty as soon as I looked at her breast, and I quickly looked up to see if Heather had caught me – and of course she had. But there was no reprimand forthcoming. If anything, she looked somewhat triumphant, a twinkle in her eye and a small smile on her lips as though she had achieved exactly what she had hoped to achieve.

Not knowing what to make of that, and silently reproaching myself for failing in such an obvious fashion, I looked out to sea and took a swig of my beer. What else was there to do?

"Shelly's not breastfeeding any more, is she?" Heather asked of me.

"No, she transitioned our bub to formula at six months," I replied – trying not to frown quizzically, being quite sure Heather knew all too well that Shelly was no longer breastfeeding. "Her milk supply didn't seem to be doing the trick anymore."

"It must be nice to be free of having to feed," Heather reckoned, still with a boob out. I knew she was still exposed, seeing enough from the corner of my eye to know she hadn't moved to tuck it back in, without seeing enough to actually still be seeing it.

"Yeah, there's a lot of convenience in formula feeding," I found myself agreeing. "Easier to regulate how much bubba's getting, easier to do the feeding out and about..."

"Guess I've just been lucky. Little Missy usually gets far more milk out of me than she knows what to do with! And breastfeeding in public – well, that's half the thrill."

I found myself gripping my beer quite tightly at the way she said that. There was more than a hint of allure in her voice, and I struggled not to panic. Standing alone with an extremely attractive woman, who had her boob hanging out of her top for no apparent reason – what was I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to look?

She must have sensed my predicament. "You are allowed to sneak a peek every now and again, you know," she whispered, conspiratorially.

I stole myself another hesitant glance again, and she practically laughed at me. "You're too much a good boy, Marcus," Heather admonished.

I laughed a little at myself too. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just... I really don't want to be a perve."

"I know," she smiled. "You've been really good from the outset, since the day we met. And I've appreciated it, Marc. We both have, Chris and I. Too often, even in the old Mother's Group, guys take my feeding Little Missy as an invitation to cop an eyeful – it can be quite repugnant."

"Oh I'm sure," I interjected quickly. "And that's the last thing I wanted to do, that's exactly the kind of guy I don't want to be. You and Shelly are such good friends, and Chris is such a top bloke, I just..." Even as I spoke, I couldn't help it, and I found myself stealing another glace at Heather's still-bared boob.

"Oh jeez," I self-admonished, as I looked to see Heather grinning ever-larger at me and my haplessness. "Heather I'm sorry..."

"Marcus, no offence taken! I'm the one who's flashing you," she said, punctuating her statement with a cheeky poke of the tongue. "Perhaps I'm the one who owes you an apology?"

"No no no no no," I said, realising as I did that I said it too quickly and too vehemently. "I mean... I'm just trying to say... oh man," I finished, giving up and taking a long, settling swig of beer.

Heather was fully laughing now, taking great delight in my discomfort and self-reproach. "Marcus: please. Just take yourself a good long look, okay?"

As the beer settled into my system and had its desired calming effect, I shrugged at myself and did as invited: I turned to Heather and took a good long look at her very nice bared breast.

"There now. Doesn't that feel better?" Heather smirked, turning a little as though to let me appreciate it from several angles.

"It's a very nice boob, Heather," I told her, for lack of anything better to say.

She laughed again, and finally reached to put her boob away. "Honestly, Marc, it's fine. I know you work hard to not come across as a perve, and like I said, both Chris and I have always appreciated that about you. But really – for me, anyway – there comes a point where your 'not looking' gets a little frustrating. I mean: everyone sneaks a peek every now and again. They can't help it – I do have nice boobs," she said, as a simple matter of fact.

I nodded along. "Yes you do," I offered.

"I do," she smiled. "And, well, I kinda like showing them off. For me that's a big part of the thrill of breastfeeding: a perfectly good excuse to flash everybody in public. It's fantastic! And then here's you, this really cute and funny guy, you're such a sweet dad and a doting husband, probably one of the most attractive guys I know," she added quietly, which riled me up no end, "and you're steadfastly refusing to sneak a peek, ya shithead!"

"Oh," was all I could say, followed by: "well, all you had to do was ask!"

"Well I have asked," she smiled. "So please, by all means, sneak yourself a peek. Stop teasing me so."

"Okay," I said, trying to piece back together some semblance of a balanced façade – no easy task in the face of such a request, hard on the back of her casual revelation that she found me highly attractive. "Well I'll tell you what. Every time I'm around for feeding time, I'll do my very best to sneak a peek just as the boob comes out, and again just as it's being put away again. It's the very least I can do."

"It's all I can ask," Heather agreed, with another highly cheeky look in her eye.

"So," I said, deciding that since the topic had been aired, there'd be no harm in pursuing it further. "Do you really get a big exhibitionistic thrill out of breastfeeding in public?"

"Oh yes, absolutely," Heather grinned. "It's a bit of a double-edged sword. Like: I don't want drooling leering pervs to be all over me, that's gross. But at the same time, being out there, putting such a personal and private part of myself out for any and all to see – it can be such a thrill. Especially in the company of friends," she added, slipping back into that really alluring tone that did all sorts of wonderful things to my nether regions.

"Wow," was all I could really say to that.

"Do you think that's, like, okay? Am I a bit of a deviant, enjoying flashing my friends and family when I'm only supposed to be feeding my baby girl?" Heather asked of me – challenged me, daring me to declare her a deviant.

Having gathered something of my senses and not one to shy away from a challenge, I formulated a suitable reply. "Oh yeah, you're a total deviant. Deviated ten ways from Sunday," I informed her.

"Is that right?" she laughed, slapping me playfully upside the arm.

"Absolutely yes, you big old devo. But hey: I get it," I assured her, in more serious tones. "I really do. I'm sure, deep down in all of us, everyone has a bit of that exhibitionistic tendency. A bit of a desire to get one's naughty bits out in gentle company, to flash a good friend or neighbour – to give them a thrill perhaps, and maybe earn a bit of praise. Who among us doesn't get the urge, every now and again, to whip it out and cause a ruckus? I know I do," I decided to add, with a dangerous waggle of the eyebrows.

"Really?" Heather asked of me, grinning hugely. "Well I'm afraid Little Miss needs me to put her to bed," she added, as her armful of toddler finally became far too much an armful to permit any further such conversation. "But hold that thought, hey?"

And with a final wink, she walked away to put her Little Miss to bed, greeting Shelly on her way as my wife finally emerged from the house.

"Where's my wine, shithead?" was Shelly's greeting for me, cheeky and challenging as ever – two among her many qualities that endeared her to me. "And what's with the lump in your pants?" she added, giving it a none-too-subtle squeeze as she bellied her voluptuous form right up into me and kissed me.

I was not one for keeping secrets from my Shelly, so I rehashed as much of my conversation and interaction with Heather as I could pluck from my jumbled senses.

Shelly laughed several times during the story. "So she finally got you to look at her tit, did she?" she grinned. "It's been bugging her for months, your 'overt gentlemanliness' as she called it."

"What?" I cried. "You knew she was going to do that? Why didn't you warn me?"

"And rob Heather of her fun? Nah, I love her far too much to deprive her of that," Shelly grinned, even as she sipped at the wine I had finally managed to pour for her.

"Great," I grumbled. "Two of them against me."

"Poor baby," said Shelly, completely devoid of any genuine sympathy. "Come on: let's get drunk."

Get drunk we did, the night proceeding easily as Chris prised himself from his phone and Heather re-joined us. Beers were had, wine glasses drained, the sun set on the view and the breeze grew colder, prompting us to take refuge in the large living room. There were two sofas arrayed facing each other, with a small coffee table in between, upon which our empty bottles quickly grew into a crowd.

Just as I found myself thinking back for perhaps the hundredth time on Heather's boob-out antics earlier in the evening, Heather winced with discomfort, rubbing the boobs in question.

"Feeling over-full there, hun?" Chris asked of her.

"Yep," Heather griped. "Little Missy wasn't hungry enough tonight. I'm too damned full of milk!"

"Shoot some over Marc's way," Shelly joked. "He loves him some breastmilk."

"Does he just?" asked Heather, turning her grin on me.

Happily, I had consumed enough brews to be long past any abashment on the topic. "Well, who doesn't?" I returned. "It's yummy. And it comes out of boobs. Win-win," I reckoned.

"Can't argue with that logic, mate!" Chris laughed.

"Did you used to let him partake, Shelly? Back when you were feeding?" Heather asked my missus.

"Aw yeah. If he'd been a good boy," Shelly winked. "Poor lad never used to get much out of me though – our little grublet would usually drink me dry, best Marc could ever get was maybe a drop or three."

I shrugged. "Beggars can't be choosers," said I.

"And here I am, full enough to hit you from here," said Heather, with another one of those naughty looks on her face.

I had enough of my senses about me to know what to say to that. "I don't believe you," I told her, matter-of-factly. "You couldn't hit me from way over there."

"Careful mate," Chris warned, playfully. "She's a pretty crack shot. She's like Marvel's Hawkeye, except with long-range expressed breastmilk instead of arrows."