Milking My Stepdad's Daughter (Stepbrother Short Reads #8)

1. Selena

SELENA

My breasts are so full they hurt.

I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom, breath coming in short, with shaky gasps.

Dark wet circles spread across the front of my white tank top as milk slowly seeps through the thin fabric.

I don’t wear a bra anymore. The pressure on my chest is too painful, and now there's nothing beneath my tank top to stop the damp patches from spreading. The hormonal condition that hit me three weeks ago still hasn’t let up.

My breasts feel like they’re going to burst any second if I don’t relieve the pressure soon.

I fumble with the breast pump I ordered in secret weeks ago.

My hands shake so badly I nearly drop it twice.

I need to be careful with this one ‘cause I already broke its other flange.

As a result, I have to stick to pumping alternately.

I don't have time to change into a new shirt, so I just lift the hem of the one I’m wearing just high enough to attach the pump to my right boob properly, keeping the left boob covered.

The moment I press my one and only pump over my right nipple and turn it on, a sharp, needy moan tears from my throat.

Thick, white milk fills the bottle in powerful, rhythmic pulses.

The sudden relief is intense and filthy.

The rhythmic tugging feels too good, too intimate, and I hate myself for the way my thighs press together instinctively.

Hurry. Dinner is in twenty minutes. Dad will kill me if he finds out.

Well, not literally, but my dad has always been so strict with me. He still sees me as his innocent little girl. If he ever finds out about this humiliating condition, I know he’d look at me differently. Worst of all, he’ll suspect I’m pregnant. I can’t let that happen.

I’m nineteen. This shouldn’t be happening to me. But my body doesn’t care what I think. It just keeps on producing more. Constantly. Painfully. And no matter how many times I pump in secret, I’m full and leaking again within hours.

I switch the pump to my left breast, this time lifting the left hem of my tank top above my chest. I repeat the process every time I switch breasts.

A bit of a hassle, yes, but my right breast keeps leaking anyway, the front of my tank top already soaked through, warm streams running down my belly and soaking into the waistband of my shorts.

I don’t care anymore. I just want to finish this.

I finish both sides, carry the full bottles into the bathroom, and pour every drop down the drain the way I always do so that no one finds out.

But a few moments later, just after sitting on the bed, the familiar ache starts building again. I take the pump back to my right breast, chasing a relief that never seems to last more than a few minutes before the pressure starts building all over again.

My nipples are so sensitive that every tug of the pump sends sharp sparks of unwanted pleasure straight between my legs. I’m ashamed of how wet I am down there—not just from the milk.

I’m so focused on pumping that I don’t even hear footsteps approaching.

The door swings open without a knock. I realize too late the door isn’t locked.

I spin around with a sharp gasp, the breast pump still attached to my right breast, the motor humming loudly, with only my left breast covered. In the doorway, I see a familiar figure but somehow different in ways I can’t describe.

Soren.

My stepbrother stands there in his tailored black suit, looking even taller and more commanding than I remember after six long months away.

The suit strains across his broad, muscular shoulders and powerful chest. Dark tattoos snake out from the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt and the open collar at his throat.

His hair is perfectly styled, his strong jaw shadowed with stubble, and those piercing eyes—one blue, one brown—widen the second they drop to my chest.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

He just stands there in the doorway with those mismatched eyes locked on the pump that’s still attached to my right breast and the milk still pulsing into the bottle in wet, rhythmic spurts.

The motor keeps humming.

My left breast is still covered by the thin tank top, but milk has already seeped through the fabric and is running down my stomach in warm streams. I can feel it pooling at the waistband of my shorts.

I try to speak. Nothing comes out except a broken, panicked sound.

Soren’s gaze drops lower. He takes in the dark wet patches, the clear outline of my uncovered nipple, the way my chest is still rising and falling too fast. Something shifts in his expression, turning dark and hungry in a way that feels completely unfamiliar.

I’ve seen him look at business contracts that way but I’ve never seen him look at me like this.

My bare feet slip on the hardwood. I stumble backward.

Strong hands catch my waist before I can fall, hauling me upright and locking me into his chest that feels like solid, radiating heat.

The pump is still working between us. Milk sprays harder for a second from the sudden pressure of our bodies colliding.

“Oh my God—” I try to pull away, mortified beyond words, but his powerful hands tighten on my waist, holding me firmly in place against his solid frame so I can’t put even an inch of space between us.

My left breast presses hard to his chest while the pump keeps working on the right. Although my left breast is still covered by my tank top, milk continues to soak through it and into his expensive shirt.

I feel my left nipple harden even more as it presses into the dense muscle of his chest, the thin fabric doing almost nothing to dull the contact.

The impact makes my knees buckle. The tubing slips free from my shaking fingers, and the pump tumbles to the floor with a sharp clatter before finally coming loose.

Now, my right breast is fully out in front of him. No cover. I twist, trying to pull my tank top down, but Soren’s arm locks tighter around my waist, pulling me back into his broad chest. My chest fully presses closer to his, both sensitive nipples dragging across the hard plane of his torso.

“Selena.” The word vibrates straight into me. “Don’t fight me.”

The solid strength of him presses to me and my stomach drops. I’ve noticed him for years in quiet, stolen glances, the way his presence fills a room, but I’ve never been this close, never felt the full weight of his attention like this. My breath catches for a different reason entirely.

His grip remains firm and unyielding as his free hand slides up my side. His thumb brushes along my ribs in slow, deliberate strokes. It isn’t soothing in the slightest; it feels more like claiming. I can feel the tension rolling off him, intense and controlled.

“I heard a motor humming and thought you’d left something on,” he says, his voice drops, measured and quiet. “I came to check. And instead, I find you like this… dripping… and half… naked.”

He stares down at my swollen nipples, milk still running. His gaze hardens.

“Is that milk?” he asks, voice rough and low. “You’re leaking all over me.”

I turn away in embarrassment and couldn't look into his eyes. I couldn’t even deny it.

Another thick droplet escapes my right nipple, landing directly into his shirt. I feel so small, so exposed, so utterly vulnerable pressed into his much larger body.

“I—I didn’t know you were coming home today,” I whisper, voice cracking with humiliation. “This is so embarrassing… I was just trying to handle it quickly before dinner so no one would see me like this… Please, Soren, don’t tell Dad. I can explain?—”

“Quiet.” The single word is cold and commanding, cutting through my panicked words. “You don’t want him to hear you and walk inside seeing you like this… leaking all over me. Do you?”

I stay quiet from now on. His hands stay locked on my waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold me firmly in place, my dripping breasts still crushed into his chest.

“Breathe. Stop trying to pull away from me.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Now tell me. What’s really going on?”

I try to step back, overwhelmed, but his hands tighten on my waist, keeping me pinned exactly where I am.

My leaking nipples stay mashed to his chest, milk tracking down more with every little movement.

I feel so shy, so embarrassed, avoiding his eyes, but I can’t escape the intense sensations or the way my body seems to lean into his hold despite everything.

Soren has always been the strong, distant one. He doesn’t stay long and whenever he’s back, he just orders me around as his little stepsister. And now that same commanding presence is wrapped around me while I’m exposed and leaking all over his expensive shirt.

“Talk,” he demands, his tone low and rough.

I swallow hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Uhmm… First of all, I’m not pregnant or breastfeeding. Believe me, I’m not.”

The words catch in my throat. I force myself to meet his eyes, my face burning with embarrassment. Admitting any of this out loud feels impossible, but keeping it a secret isn’t an option anymore.

I take a slow, unsteady breath before continuing.

“I—It’s a condition… Hormonal, they say.

I only searched it up on the internet and forums. I haven’t gone to a doctor yet because I don’t want anyone finding out about this.

Right now I still don’t know why it’s happening, but all I know is that my breasts keep getting so full and swollen that they hurt constantly, and I?—”

“How long?” His voice is quiet, but it cuts through mine like a blade.

I blink. “What?”

“How long has it been?”

He doesn’t look away from my chest. Another slow drop of milk slides from my right nipple and lands on the front of his shirt. His jaw tightens.

“Three weeks,” I whisper. “It started three weeks ago. Out of nowhere. It just keeps… producing. All the time. No matter how many times I?—”

Suddenly, heavy footsteps start up the stairs. Dad’s unmistakable, deliberate tread. Panic floods me the second I realize the door is still unlocked.

Before I can move, Soren drags me away from the door and pins me against the wall with his much larger body.

One hand braces beside my head. The other stays locked around my waist, holding me so tightly I feel every hard line of him.

Our eyes lock in the sudden silence. His mismatched gaze burns into mine as Dad’s footsteps climb the stairs.

My heart is slamming so hard I’m sure he can feel it against his chest. Milk is still leaking between us, warm and continuous, soaking into his shirt. I try to twist away, to at least cover myself, but his hold doesn’t give even an inch.

He raises a finger to his lips, signaling me to stay quiet.

The footsteps grow louder. Closer. Every step feels like it lands directly on my ribs. I can hear Dad’s voice already forming in the hallway, the same stern tone he always uses when he wants us downstairs on time.

If he opens this door right now he will see everything—my bare breast still pressed to Soren’s chest, the milk staining his expensive shirt, the way my stepbrother is holding me like he owns the right to keep me here.

Soren doesn’t look away from me. Not once. His eyes stay locked on mine, dark and absolute, while the footsteps reach the top of the stairs and pause just outside the hallway.

I stop breathing. I close my eyes and desperately pray.

“Soren! Selena! Dinner’s on the table in five! Get down here before it gets cold!”

The words boom through the wood of the door. My entire body goes rigid. Soren’s hand on my waist flexes once, a silent warning. Neither of us moves. Neither of us makes a sound. Milk continues to drip steadily onto his shirt in the heavy silence that follows.

The footsteps finally start moving again. I hear it down the hall, then back down the stairs. Each one feels slower than the last. Only when the sound finally fades completely does the air return to my lungs in a shaky, broken rush that leaves me light-headed.

I expect him to release me, to step back, to tell me to fix my clothes and to pretend none of this just happened.

But he doesn’t do any of it.

Instead, Soren’s hand moves.

No words. He simply grabs the hem of my tank top and lifts it all the way up and throws it aside in one swift motion, fully exposing both of my heavy, swollen breasts. Milk continues to leak from the hard tips, trailing down my stomach in thin white streams.

I freeze. All I can do is gasp for air. Yet a traitorous part of me stays completely still under his stare, pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.

Soren stares down at them for a long, heavy second. His eyes are dark with raw possession and hunger, the kind that makes my stomach drop.

“Fuck,” he says, voice rough. “What the hell happened to these tits, little sister?”