So I have come here to return your youth, so that you can put a child in Lysa."
The Elven King scoffs beneath his breath and mutters, "We are skipping to that so soon? I have yet to even examine your little pet... project here. For all I know it might be rabid or diseased. It certainly looks it. Why does it skin sag so, as though it is made of a soft dough?"
Lightly for a woman of er *ahem* stature, your grandmother skips across the room to stand behind you, her breasts squishing against your back. Normally you would have never allowed one of the enemy to see your back, let alone be within stabbing range of it, but there is something about this woman that bypasses your guard more effectively than a vorpal blade, some strange aura of knitting and cookies that evokes an overpowering sense of security. Despite your years and social stature, there is little you want more right now than her to tuck you into a warm bed and read you a story.
Her hands caress your cheeks. "Janny is a little old and he may have a few wrinkles here or there," she admits. "Though normally he would be as immortal as you or I, were it not for a slight case of obsidian poisoning. Nothing a warm glass of milk from his grandmother won't cure," she purrs.
There is the rustle of clothing, or maybe just the snap of a taut elastic band, and strong hands grip the side of your head, gentle but firmly twisting you around. "That doesn't look like a cup," you mumble as she positions your mouth around her nipple.
'If only I could bottle this sweet ambrosia, I could sell it for far more than tea', thinks the dwindling voice of the adult trader in you. The inner child, or rather the inner baby, that is currently firmly in control can only think of the two wonderful breasts filling its entire world and how wonderfully delicious the milk squirting against the back of your throat tastes. Arlayna gives a grunt of pleasure at the modicum of relief granted her painfully swollen breasts, pushing Janny's head closer as your tongue laps at her tits. Elven childhood could last decades, even indefinitely, and elven mothers were designed to provide sustenance during that time, while the half-elven children she had born the Meade family tended to leave the teat after only a few years. Her breasts are still achingly full from the time she had birthed your father, over half a century ago. "Drink deep, my child," she sighed, tipping her head back in ecstasy. "Please. Don't stop."
Your belly is warm and full but you continued to feed greedily. As you do, the wrinkles about your eyes begin to smoothen and the distinguished grey upon your temples darkens once again. The tips of your ears grow a fraction more pointed as grandmother's milk awakens some dormant elven part of you.
What happens if I don't stop? you wonder dimly. Will I become fully elven? Will I even become an elven child, not even a century in age, barely a todler by their standards? A part of me wants to find out...
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