5: Stepdaddy Treats My Tits and Pussy with his fingers.

MIA

“You keep moving whenever the symptoms spike,” he said. “I need you to stay still long enough for me to finish checking you.”

Then his mouth is on me again. I obey. He wraps the towel loosely but securely around my wrists, knotting it so I can still feel the give but cannot easily pull free. “So you stay still for the exam,” he says, voice clinical again for half a second before it breaks. “I need both hands free.”

The strange symptoms had started again that morning, worse than before. Marcus had warned me that if they returned, he needed to examine me properly to understand what was triggering them.

He guides me back until my calves hit the edge of the bed. I sit. He pushes my bound hands above my head and settles between my spread thighs. My heavy tits rise and fall with every nervous breath. Milk is already dripping onto my stomach in thin white trails.

“I need to understand why your symptoms keep returning,” Marcus said. “Something is triggering them, and guessing isn’t enough anymore.”

For days, I’d been waking to damp clothes and a strange heaviness in my chest. I still didn’t understand what was happening to my body, and every explanation Marcus had given me seemed to raise more questions.

Marcus lowers his head and takes the left nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, rhythmic pulls that make more fluid flow. At the same time two thick fingers push into my cunt—no warning, just the slow, relentless stretch of my tight virgin hole around him. I cry out, hips jerking, but the towel keeps my wrists pinned to the mattress. He adds a third finger almost immediately, curling them deep while his thumb finds my clit and rubs tight circles.

He switches breasts, sucking the right one just as hard, swallowing every drop that comes. The wet sounds of his mouth and the wetter sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of me fill the room. My pussy is so slick it makes filthy little noises with every thrust of his hand. Milk leaks faster under the dual stimulation; thin streams run down the sides of my breasts and pool in the soft valley between them.

“Look at you,” he says against my skin, voice strained. “Leaking from both ends like you were made for this. Keep those tits up. Don’t you dare drop them.”

Marcus went quiet. For a moment, the professional certainty I’d seen in him all morning disappeared. His jaw tightened, as though he were reminding himself why I’d come to him in the first place.

I force my bound hands higher, presenting the heavy, wet flesh even as my arms shake. He sucks and fingers me until my thighs are trembling, until the pressure coils so tight I think I might break. When I come it is with a broken sob, cunt clamping hard around his three fingers, milk jetting in short pulses against his tongue. He keeps going through it, drawing every last tremor out of me until I am panting and dripping onto the sheets.

He pulls his fingers free, shiny and thick with my slick, and wipes them across my lower lip again so I taste myself mixed with the faint sweetness of the milk.

“On all fours. Center of the bed.”

This was supposed to be an examination. So why did I suddenly feel as though I was seeing a side of Marcus he had spent weeks hiding from me?

I scramble to obey, awkward with my wrists still lightly bound. The mattress dips as he climbs on behind me. My heavy tits hang down, swaying, already starting to drip again onto the clean sheets. He reaches under me with both hands, cups the full weight of them, and squeezes—firm, rhythmic, milking.

“Count with me,” he says, voice rough. “Every drop that hits the sheets.”

He lines up the broad head of his cock against my soaked entrance. The stretch is slow, burning, perfect. Inch by inch he pushes into my virgin cunt until he is buried to the root, his hips flush against the soft curve of my ass. I moan into the mattress, walls fluttering wildly around the thick intrusion.

Then he starts to move.

Deep, grinding strokes that drag every ridge along my inner walls. At the same time his hands never stop working my tits—squeezing, tugging the nipples, forcing thin streams of milk to fall in slow, steady drops onto the sheets below me.

“One,” he counts as the first drop hits.

“Two.”

“Three.”

Each number is punctuated by a hard thrust into my tight ass hole that makes my hanging breasts swing and spray a little more. The wet slap of skin on skin mixes with the soft patter of milk hitting fabric. My bound wrists press into the mattress; I can only take what he gives me. He fucks me steadily, deeply, milking me the entire time, voice low and controlled as he keeps the count going.

“Fourteen… fifteen… look how much you’re giving me. Good girl. Keep those tits hanging. Let me see every drop.”

My clit is swollen and neglected, rubbing against nothing, the friction of his cock alone enough to wind the pressure tight again. He reaches one hand farther under to pinch the aching bud between two fingers while the other continues to milk, and the dual sensation makes my vision blur.

“Twenty-two… twenty-three…”

I come again with a broken cry, cunt pulsing hard around him, more milk spilling in messy little jets that he carefully counts as they land. He does not stop. He keeps fucking me through it, keeps squeezing and tugging, keeps the filthy tally going until the sheets beneath my breasts are visibly damp with scattered white drops and my thighs are shaking so hard I can barely hold myself up.

Only when the count reaches thirty-one and my body is limp and trembling does he finally still, buried deep, both hands still full of my soft, leaking flesh. His breathing is ragged against the back of my neck.

“Exam complete,” he murmurs, voice dark with everything he has been holding back. “For now.”Marcus’s expression changed. Whatever he had expected to find, this wasn’t it. He stared at me for several seconds before finally looking away.

“That’s not normal,” he murmured. “And I think I know what triggered it.”

I’m so close. The pressure builds low and vicious. My bound hands flex uselessly above my head. “Daddy—please, I need—”

He stops. Just stops. Pulls his mouth off my nipple with a wet pop. Withdraws his fingers. Sits back on his heels between my spread thighs, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach, staring at my open, glistening cunt like a man starving.

I loathed myself for letting my mother’s new husband make me feel this good, still I was so close. I wanted to cum. I wanted to feel his cock… to taste it.

“Not yet,” he says, voice wrecked. “I can’t… not while you’re like this. Not while I’m supposed to be helping you.”

His expression hardened. I saw the decision happen before he spoke—the moment he forced himself to remember that I had come to him because I trusted him to help me.

“This isn’t what you came here for,” he said quietly.

But I knew when we crossed the line. I may be as virginal as nun but I knew when we stopped being professional.

And I didn’t stop him, because deep down in my traitorous pussy I had wanted a big fat cock to stretch me wide. I had wanted Marcus veiny cock for so long to satisfy my daddy’s fantasy and I knew he wanted me too, so I let him ‘treat’ me

Now I couldn’t look at him. Whatever had just happened, I refused to give it a name. This was an examination. That was all. It had to be.

The problem was that my body didn’t seem to believe me.

I felt ashamed of how much I’d wanted it, ashamed that some part of me had been waiting for him to stop pretending this was only about helping me.

No. I shook the thought away. Marcus was helping me. I was the one letting my imagination turn everything into something it wasn’t.

He unties my wrists. The towel falls away. I stay where I am, panting, tits still leaking, cunt fluttering around nothing. He rolls me onto my back so he can look at the mess he made of me—flushed skin, wet thighs, heavy tits still leaking onto my stomach.

“Clean yourself up,” he says, though his eyes say the opposite. “And leave the door unlocked tonight.” Marcus stands, and paces once at the foot of the bed like a caged animal.

“If it happens again, you come straight to me. No touching yourself, understood?”

“What if you’re not here?”

His eyes held mine.

“Then you wait.”

There was something in his voice that made my stomach tighten.

“Because if I find out you went looking for someone else, Mia, we’re going to have a very different conversation.”

I nod, throat too tight to speak.

I waited until the door closed behind him before looking down at myself. Whatever had happened tonight, one thing was certain: things between Marcus and me would never be as simple as they had been before.

I told myself I was relieved when Marcus finally left.

I told myself I regretted everything that had happened.

I told myself I hadn’t wanted him.

But none of those lies explained why I was already wondering what would happen if the symptoms returned... would I really wake Marcus—or would I finally admit that I wanted to?