MIA

He's across the small bathroom in two strides, dropping to a crouch beside me. The towel gaps. My gaze flicks once-thick base, heavy shaft, the head already half-swollen-and my cunt clenches so hard I make a tiny sound.

His hands are already on me. One big palm under my elbow, the other steadying my waist. The heat of his bare skin against my wet side makes my nipples tighten even more. Another bead of milk rolls down and drips onto the tile right between us.

Marcus's nostrils flare. He sees it.

He helps me stand, but my knee buckles again. He catches my full weight easily, pulling my soft, dripping body flush against his chest for one heartbeat. My tits smash against hard muscle. My dripping cunt brushes the front of his towel. I feel him twitch.

"Sit," he orders, voice rough. He lifts me onto the bathroom counter like I weigh nothing. Cold marble kisses my bare ass. I try to cover myself with my arms, but he gently pulls them away.

"Marcus-please, I'm naked, I don't want you to see-"

"I'm a doctor, Mia. And you're hurt. Let me check."

He sounded completely professional.

I wished I could believe that was all there was to it.

Because when our eyes met, something passed between us that had nothing to do with my injured knee.

He looked away first.

Marcus examined my knee and frowned. "You're going to have a bruise."

"Great."

"And you're not walking to class like this."

"I have an exam."

"Then I'll drive you."

The word Daddy sits on the tip of my tongue. I never say it out loud. Only in my head, late at night when my cunt throbs and I press my face into the pillow so no one hears the needy sounds I make.

He stands between my spread thighs, towel tenting obscenely now. His eyes stay clinical even as they drag over every soft, wet inch of me. "Where does it hurt?"

"My knee," I lie first.

I wanted to tell him everything.

At the same time, I wanted the floor to swallow me.

How was I supposed to explain that the man standing in front of me was the reason I had barely slept for three weeks?

He was my stepfather.

I wasn't supposed to feel any of this.

Then, voice tiny, shame burning hotter than the steam, "And... everywhere else. My chest has been aching for three weeks. And... lower. I think something's wrong with me. I'm leaking and it throbs every time I hear your voice and I don't know how to make it stop and I'm scared-"

His expression changed when I mentioned how long the symptoms had lasted.

It was subtle.

So subtle I might have missed it if I hadn't spent the last three weeks watching every reaction he gave me.

"Three weeks," he repeated quietly.

Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten.

"You know something?"

He didn't answer.

Marcus goes very still. His expression changed immediately. "How long has your knee been hurting?"

"Since I fell."

"Can you move your ankle?"

I did.

"Good. Any dizziness? Did you hit your head?"

"No."

His gaze sharpened. "And you said your breasts have been hurting for weeks?"

I nodded.

"Both sides?"

"Yes."

"Any medication? New supplements? Anything else unusual?"

I shook my head.

Marcus looked away for a moment, jaw tightening. "Mia, we need to figure out what's causing this."

His voice was controlled, but something about his expression made me wonder if he was fighting his own thoughts.

Then he stepped back. "This isn't something we should try to figure out here." He paced for a while running his hands through his wet hair. Then he stepped forward again and his eyes dropped to my chest. "Show me."

I hesitate, then drop my arms. My heavy, soft tits spill free, nipples dark and tight, a fresh bead of milk already forming on the left. His jaw flexes hard.

"Any pain when I do this?" He cups the underside of my left breast, lifting the weight, then squeezes firmly from the outer edge toward the nipple. Milk beads instantly and rolls over his thumb. My head falls back with a broken moan I can't swallow.

"N-no... it feels... better when you squeeze."

He switches to the right, methodical, clinical questions tumbling out even as his cock visibly thickens under the towel. "How long has the leakage been happening? Any fever? Tenderness here?" Another firm squeeze. More milk. He reaches for a clean washcloth, runs it under warm water, and presses it gently against first one nipple, then the other-innocent, careful, professional.

But the cloth isn't enough. The ache is deeper.

He drops the cloth. Bare hands return. He squeezes again, slower this time, watching the milk bead and roll. Then he leans in, close enough that his warm breath ghosts over the wet tip, and sucks the bead straight off my nipple with a soft, wet sound.

"Just confirming the fluid," he mutters against my skin, but his tongue flicks once, tasting, and my hips jerk forward without permission.

He doesn't pull away. He sucks harder, drawing a thin stream, while his other hand roughly thumbs the opposite nipple, rolling and tugging until both tits drip steadily onto my soft stomach. My fingers clutch the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles ache. My virgin cunt clenches around nothing, juices running down to the marble beneath me...

Marcus suddenly pulled back.

His expression had completely changed.

"What?" I whispered.

He stared at me for several seconds.

"You said these symptoms started three weeks ago?"

I nodded.

"Mia..."

Something in his voice made my stomach drop.

"What happened three weeks ago?"

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."