After pacing for a few minutes more, Dahra wiped the sweat from her ample brow, and sat down on one of the many benches that surrounded the plaza. This one was under a wogbol.Unlike most days, there was no gentle breezes to mitigate the humidity, and the shade felt good on a hot sticky afternoon. The sweet scent of the flowers planted throughout the plaza which was normally delightful, became cloying, and almost over- whelming, in the stagnant air.Dahra tapped her foot impatiently as she waited on the bench. She started a few times as other students came out of the building; some looked sad or depressed, but most were jubilant.When Lissa finally came out of the building, Dahra spotted her at once. It was hard not to notice her unique gait.Lissa Kemetirtan, who stood five foot eight, was faldu, like her birth mother, Frissa. But, unlike other faldu, Lissa did not bind her breasts, or have them surgically reduced. Quite the opposite. In open rebellion to tradition, she wore a bodice. In a soft voice, she asked me, "Would you like to nuzzle at mama's breast, baby? Would that make you feel better?" It was all I could think about. I sat up nodding with tears still on my cheeks as she lifted her top. I pulled at the buttons down my front and discarded my shirt and laid against her. That was almost ten minutes ago. I was still drinking sweet milk from her breast and feeling like I was floating in a bubble of calm comfort, completely inside a world of my own sensual thoughts with my mother's body as the container. I became aware that my pussy was wet, an insistent throbbing pulsing with a sort of "bump bump" in my panties. Without even thinking about it, I slipped one hand down between my legs and began to rub myself over my shorts. I've never had sexual feelings for my mom, and I'm not sure that's what this was. But, the connection and intense amount of comfort coming through her body made me drunk with the desire to touch myself, which I do a lot when I'm stressed.
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