Thirty Dark Nights.

MIA

“Fuck… not again…”

The words slip out of me in a shaky whisper while the hot water pounds over my heavy, aching tits. I stare down at the fresh stain on my discarded pajama shorts, my stomach twisting. Three weeks. Three weeks of strange symptoms I can’t explain, and somehow they’re getting worse.

Steam fills the little bathroom. My soft, plump body is flushed pink from the heat. One hand braces against the slick tile; the other hovers uselessly between my thick thighs, fingers trembling, never quite brave enough to touch the place that throbs the hardest. I have never touched myself before. The mere thought of it made me feel so dirty.

I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. For three weeks my fat nipples have been leaking clear beads that soak through every bra by lunchtime. Three weeks ago, everything had been normal. Then, almost overnight, my body started behaving strangely. And three weeks ago was also the night my stepfather came home from his medical conference.

I still remembered the night he came home.

The suitcase by the stairs. The tired smile when Mom greeted him. The way his eyes had lingered on me for one strange second before he looked away.

At the time, I hadn't thought anything of it.

Now, I couldn't stop wondering if that night had been the beginning of everything.

My virgin pussy stays swollen and slick no matter how many times I change panties. And every single time I hear his voice—deep, low, the one that used to just mean “pass the salt”—my cunt clenches like it’s trying to pull something inside me that isn’t there.

The first time it happened, I thought I was imagining it.

 Marcus had called my name from downstairs, and something strange had fluttered through my stomach.

I had laughed it off.

Then it happened again. And again. Now even the sound of his voice was enough to make me nervous.

Right now that voice is singing.

On the other side of the thin wall, in the master bathroom, my stepdaddy Marcus is in the shower too. Water runs. His baritone carries through the plaster, some slow, dirty blues song that makes the air vibrate in my chest.

I stopped breathing for a second.

He was close. Close enough that I could hear every note through the wall.

For one ridiculous moment, I wondered whether he could hear me too. I lowered my gaze, suddenly embarrassed by my own thoughts.

Then he said my name. "Miaa..." 

My eyes flutter shut. Fresh wetness slides down my inner thighs to mix with the shower spray. My nipples tighten into stiff, leaking points. A bead of milk rolls over the soft underside of my left breast and drips onto the floor of the tub. Lord, forgive me. It sounded like a moan in my ears. I had no idea Mia was in that song.

Marcus had been my stepfather for four years. He had always been easy to talk to—the man who helped me with my college applications, fixed things around the house, and reminded me to eat when I was too busy studying.

I had never looked at him this way before. That was the part that frightened me most.

Marcus hadn't changed. I had. And I had no idea what had happened inside me to turn the safest man in my life into the one person I couldn't stop thinking about.

God, why does it do this when he sings?

I imagine him under the spray—broad shoulders, dark chest hair slicked down, that thick cock I’ve only ever seen outlined once through gray sweatpants hanging heavy between his thighs. The memory alone makes my clit pulse so hard I whimper. My fingers finally brush my dripping folds. Just a little. Just to stop the ache. I’m so slick the tip of my middle finger slips between the puffy lips before I yank it back like I’ve been burned.

I don’t even know how to make it stop. I’m so fucking pathetic. What if he finds out? He’s a doctor. He’ll know something’s wrong with me. He’ll see how fat and soft I am and look at me with disgust—

My phone alarm blares from the counter.

Shit. Late. Mom’s already on a plane to Chicago for the week-long conference. There's no one to drop me at college. I'm already late. I twist the water off, shove the glass door open, and step out too fast. Wet feet hit the bath mat. The mat skids. My soft body pitches forward.

I hit the floor hard on one knee and one palm. A sharp cry tears out of my throat before I can stop it.

“Mia?” Marcus's alluring voice calls from outside.

I freeze.

“Are you okay?”

I tried to answer, but the pain in my knee stole my voice.

“Mia, open the door.”

When I didn’t respond, the handle turned.

“Mia?!”

The door to my bathroom flies open. Marcus stands there in nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his hips, water still running down the hard planes of his chest and abs, and every thought in head disappeared. Dark hair damp. Jaw tight. His eyes lock on me—naked, wet, on all fours, heavy tits hanging and swinging, ass up, pussy visibly glistening between thick thighs.

Of all the people who could have found me like this, it had to be him.

His expression changed when he saw me on the floor. Concern came first. Then something else flickered across his face so quickly I almost convinced myself I hadn't seen it. He looked away. Why?

Heat floods my face so fast I feel dizzy. “I’m fine,” I whisper, trying to curl in on myself. “I just slipped. I’m late, I—”

“Don’t move.”