Page 183 of Wanting What's Wrong

Then, with a slow, controlled thrust, he buries his thickness inside me. The lights seem to flicker, I slap my hands on the table, screaming for something, someone.

So. Fucking. Deep.

A scream rips from my lungs as he pulls out, pushes back in, more, then more, then more.

“There it is,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Claimed by your old man. Your step-father, now your fucking Daddy.”

My muscles clench around him, holding him, keeping him. “Don’t stop.”

He shifts and rocks, settling into me, and the burn intensifies. “You like that? Taking all of that fat cock you’ve been teasing for so long.”

“It’s…perfect,” I manage, my voice a little shaky. “It feels like…everything is opening up.”

He is taking the last bits of me, sliding in and out, darts of pain expanding in my belly, his weight pressing down on me. “Good. Let it open. I’m gonna fill up that belly of yours. Make it match those tits.”

I scream into the counter, overwhelmed, owned.

And when he says, “Come for me now, baby girl,” I do.

Loud. Shaking. Milking his cock with every pulse of my body.

He holds me there, buried deep, groaning my name like a curse.

And I know he’s not letting go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Five

Jenna

The pink and orange of the horizon out the window is swallowing the sun.

I’m in the living room just outside the kitchen, curled in one of Cal’s flannels, my thighs sore, my breasts heavy, still leaking. I don’t know how long I slept on the worn leather couch in the corner. I just remember him carrying me there after we did what we did.

After he cleaned me with a warm cloth, then had me clean him with my mouth and kissed every inch of skin he’d ruined.

After he said I was his now. That he’d never let me go.

After he made me promises for a future I never imagined I could have.

I make my way back into the kitchen. The house hums with quiet, and in the dimmer light of the evening I see a note on the counter.

"Back soon. Don’t move. Don’t pump. You’re mine to fill and drain. -C"

I shudder. My body responds like he’s here, whispering that filth into my ear.

I pad barefoot across the floor, every step a reminder of how deep he was. How hard I came. How full he left me.

My breasts are aching again. Tight and swollen, and God, I need him. I need the relief, and I need to know that this is really real, that I’m really here and we did what I remember us doing. Because if it’s all a dream, or I’ve gone insane and started imagining my fantasies coming true, I might just lose my shit.

Right then, the door slams open.

Cal strides in, his hat in place, boots clunking on the floor, carrying three paper bags from the store and a box of goddamn lactation cookies tucked under his arm.

"Jesus Christ," he growls the second he sees me my breasts reacting like he’s a baby crying, soaking the front of the shirt with new wetness. "You leaking for me already, baby girl? You’re a good little cow. A super producer."

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