3: Stepdaddy Makes Me Present My Leaking Tits.

MIA

“Daddy…” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Please…”

Marcus pulls off my nipple with a wet pop, eyes dark, breathing heavier. “You’re not sick, baby.

“You’re producing milk,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t tell us why.”

My stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we need to find out what’s causing it.”

His hand slides down my soft stomach, over the slight curve of my belly, and cups my dripping mound. “—is arousal. Strong. Constant. You said it throbs when you hear my voice?”

I nod, tears of shame and need pricking my eyes.

He uses the warm cloth again first—pressing it between my thighs, cleaning, soothing—then switches to bare fingers. Two thick fingers slide between my folds without warning. I’m so wet they sink in easily up to the second knuckle. I cry out, thighs trying to close, but he keeps them open with his hips. A third finger stretches my virgin entrance, curling, searching. “Tight. Untouched. Christ, Mia.”

He works me slowly—three fingers pumping, thumb circling my swollen clit—while he goes back to my tits, sucking one nipple deep, milking the other with his free hand. Milk runs down his chin. My juices coat his wrist. The wet sounds of my cunt being finger-fucked fill the steamy bathroom.

“Does this help the ache?” he growls against my breast.

“Y-yes—oh fuck, yes—”

He curls his fingers harder, finding a spot that makes my vision spark white. My hips roll against his hand. I’m so close. The pressure builds low and vicious. My tits keep leaking into his mouth. His cock is fully hard now, tenting the towel so high the fabric is about to give.

He pulls his fingers free, shiny and dripping, and brings them to my mouth. “Taste how wet you get for me.”

I suck them clean without being told, eyes locked on his. The taste of myself is filthy and perfect.

Marcus’s control frays. He yanks the towel lower. The thick, flushed head of his cock brushes the inside of my thigh. He steps closer, the blunt tip dragging through my soaked folds, notching right at my virgin entrance. One more inch and he’ll be inside me. My cunt flutters desperately around the promise of it.

Marcus doesn’t move away.

He stays right there between my open thighs, towel barely clinging, the thick ridge of his cock pressing hot against the soft inner flesh of my leg. Milk still beads on both nipples. My cunt is so wet I can feel it dripping onto the cold marble under my ass.

“Three weeks,” he repeats, voice low and rough. “Same night I got home.”

His hand leaves my face. Both palms settle on my thick thighs and slowly push them wider. He looks down. Really looks. At the swollen, glistening lips of my virgin pussy. At the way it clenches when his thumbs brush higher.

“I injected myself with an experimental compound at the conference,” he says quietly. “Something designed to accelerate healing and hormone response. I thought the dose was safe. Contained. But the night I came home… I was still shedding it through sweat. Through touch. Through the air in this house.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“And you… absorbed it.”

My heart is hammering so hard I can barely breathe.

“That’s why your body is doing this. Why your breasts are leaking. Why your cunt stays wet and aching every time you hear my voice. The compound is keyed to me. To my scent. My voice. My proximity. It’s rewriting your responses so that only I can ease the symptoms.”

He leans in. The towel finally slips. His cock springs free—thick, heavy, the head already flushed and leaking a clear bead of its own. It hangs between us, the tip brushing the soft curve of my lower belly.

“And the only way to stop the ache,” he continues, voice almost a growl, “is to give your body what it’s been programmed to need.”

One hand slides higher up my thigh until his thumb rests right against my swollen clit. He doesn’t rub. He just presses. Firm. Possessive.

“I can keep treating the symptoms. Squeeze the milk out of these pretty tits every morning. Taste it to monitor the hormone levels. Keep you on the edge until the compound burns itself out in a few more weeks.”

His thumb circles once—slow, deliberate—and my hips jerk.

“Or,” he says, eyes dark, “I can give you the real cure right now. Stretch this tight little virgin pussy around my cock. Fill you until the craving stops. Breed the ache out of you so thoroughly your body finally understands who it belongs to.”

He leans closer. His mouth is an inch from mine. The head of his cock nudges lower, sliding through the slick folds of my cunt, not entering, just resting there—hot, thick, right at the entrance.

“Your choice, Mia.”

His free hand cups my left breast again, squeezing until fresh milk beads and rolls over his fingers.

“Tell me to stop… and I’ll stop. I’ll drive you to class, pretend none of this happened, and keep treating the symptoms like a good stepfather should.”

He rolls his hips once. The broad head of his cock catches against my entrance and presses—just enough to make me feel how wide he is, how much it would stretch me open.

“Or tell me to fix it properly.” His voice drops to a whisper against my lips. He waits.

The head of his cock is right there—throbbing, leaking, poised to push inside the first time anyone ever has.

My milk drips onto his chest. My pussy clenches around nothing but the promise of him.

And outside the bathroom door, the house is completely silent. Mom is gone for the entire week. No one is coming home.

Marcus’s eyes never leave mine.

“What’s it going to be, baby girl?”

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, voice wrecked. “Tell me right now and I’ll walk out.”