Page 49 of Rough Daddy
Took us a while to decide on number two. After Carla was born, we built onto the cabin. Added a nursery, tricked out kitchen, Tessa learned to cook. We put a deck out back that looks over the valley. Tessa started a little garden. I built her a chicken coop. We made a life.
She gets real quiet sometimes when we talk about her parents. They never came around after she left. Never called. Never asked. Last she heard, they were broke and living somewhere outside of Jersey. And that was that.
Didn’t even try when Carla was born. Not once. Fuck ‘em.
Our little sex toy venture was fun, but the logistics and drama with patents and regulations took the joy out of it. We still rig up some fun for ourselves sometimes, but that’s about it. Money’s not an issue. Tessa managed to get a chunk of money her parents had hidden from her and we live simply and invest well.
I’ll always take care of my family. They never want for anything.
I’m behind her before she can get another breath out. One hand on her hip, the other sliding up to palm her tit through the thin cotton. Warm. Full. Fuck, she’s already leaking.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, already half-hard just from touching her.
“Group chat,” she says, and I catch a glimpse of the screen.
Marla: If this baby isn’t named Beef Wellington McCrotch I’m unfriending you.
Kit: I swear if you get another girl, I’m moving into your cabin and raising her as my own.
Eliana: I made nipple pads out of wool socks. DIY queen.
Tessa snorts. “They’re insane.”
“They’re distracting,” I growl, snatching the phone out of her hand and tossing it onto the workbench. “Come on. Get in.”
She glances at the car. My baby. A black '67 Chevelle we’ve been working on since before Carla was born. Looks normal from the outside. Inside? Modified. Heavily.
Passenger seat’s gone. In its place, a padded bench custom built to cradle her hips, tilt her ass up, legs spread and locked in with cuffs I added last fall.
It’s narrow, tight, like her, and built to keep her exactly where I want her—helpless and positioned to feed her Daddy.
She climbs in without a word. Like the good girl she is.
I help her settle, palms full of her hips, guiding her back into the seat. She sighs, soft and smug, spreading her thighs as far as they’ll go. The straps slide over her legs, I buckle them into place. Her belly’s up. Her tits are high. Already dripping through the shirt.
I tug it open. No bra. Just those heavy, perfect tits I’ve been obsessed with since Carla was born. Hell, probably before that. She didn’t even know it, but the minute her milk came in, I was ruined.
Now I’m addicted.
“Look at you,” I mutter, running a finger through the milk beading at her nipple. She whimpers. Fuck, that sound. That sound’s gonna kill me.
I lean in and suck one deep into my mouth, greedy, groaning like I’ve been starving. And I have. I fucking have. Her hand lands in my hair, fingers tightening.
“Beau—”
“Shh.” I lap at the other, tug her nipple with my teeth just enough to make her squirm. Milk floods my mouth. Sweet. Fucking heaven.
I pull back long enough to unbuckle my jeans. My cock’s thick, ready, leaking like she is.
“Can’t wait,” I grunt, heart pounding, lining up. “Gonna fill you up while I’m full of you.”
She whines. “You want to suckle, Daddy?”
“Fuck, yeah, baby,” I say, pushing in slow, watching her eyes roll back. “Fuck and suck.”
She moans. Like she can’t believe it still feels this good. Like four years and a kid and a baby on the way didn’t change shit.
I fuck her slow, deep. Every thrust pushes a little more milk out of her tits. I catch it on my tongue, drink it down, give her my cock like it’s the only thing keeping her alive.
