9. Lena
LENA
I sit in the car outside my parents’ house gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
My breasts feel heavy and sore under my loose sweater, a constant throbbing reminder that Ryker has been gone for over a month now.
They’ve been extra full the last few days, swollen and tight like my body is punishing me for his absence.
The leather of the steering wheel feels cold against my palms, a harsh contrast to the burning heat radiating from my chest.
I miss him so much it physically hurts. The empty house we share has become a cavern of reminders, every shadow reminding me of how he towers over me.
Beth opens the door before I can even knock, pulling me into one of her warm, lavender-scented hugs. “Lena, honey! I’m so glad you came. It’s been too quiet around here without you two.”
Two. The word lands like a stone in my stomach, pulling me down into a swamp of anxiety.
Dinner is painfully normal on the surface.
Dad grunts through most of it, asking the usual half-interested questions about my job search while cutting his steak with methodical precision.
But Beth is glowing. She keeps refilling my plate and smiling like everything is perfect, her maternal warmth feeling like an accusation I can't escape.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you and Ryker have gotten so close,” she says warmly, passing me the salad bowl.
“I always worried about him being so closed off with all those deployments. But ever since you moved in with him, he seems different. More grounded. You’re really good for him, sweetheart. ”
I nearly choke on my water. Every word feels like a knife between my ribs, twisting with every breath I take.
“He’s good for me too,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels entirely brittle. My voice sounds small and fake in the bright dining room.
Beth beams, her eyes wrinkling with genuine happiness. “That’s all I ever wanted. For you two to look out for each other. Real family, you know?”
Family. The word tastes rotten, like copper on my tongue.
While they talk about normal things, memories crash over me in vivid, uninvited flashes.
Innocent ones first: Ryker helping me carry boxes on moving day, all serious and distant, his large muscles straining against his shirt; Beth tearing up at our first awkward family dinner together; Dad clapping Ryker on the back saying, “Good to have another man around.”
Then the filthy ones hit hard and fast, flooding my brain with heat.
Ryker’s mouth latched onto my tits in the middle of the night, sucking greedily while he fucked me slow and deep.
Me riding him on the couch, milk spraying across his chest while I moaned his name into the dark.
His cum leaking out of me afterward as he gently wiped my thighs with a warm cloth like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I press my thighs together under the table, the friction creating a sharp ache in my core.
My nipples are tingling, leaking slowly into the cotton pads I’m wearing inside my bra.
The ache in my breasts grows sharper with every minute I sit here pretending to be normal, the fluid swelling against the fabric.
Beth keeps talking, completely oblivious to the physical transformation happening right across from her.
“Ryker mentioned in his last message that you’ve been helping keep the house nice while he’s gone. You’re such a sweet girl, Lena. I always knew you two would click eventually.”
I want the floor to swallow me whole. She has no idea her son has been draining my tits and fucking me raw for weeks. She doesn't know that I’ve been calling his name while coming on his cock, or that I’m sitting here right now with soaked breast pads because my body is completely addicted to him.
After dinner I help Beth with the dishes.
She’s humming happily, talking about how proud she is of Ryker’s service and how lucky I am to have such a strong man looking out for me.
Every word twists the knife deeper, the warm soapy water on my hands reminding me of how he washes my skin after we mess up the sheets.
On the drive home the guilt spirals out of control.
What if someone finds out? What if it gets back to his command?
He’s a Navy SEAL, they have strict rules, honor codes, psychological evaluations.
Could this ruin his career? His reputation?
What if Beth and Dad ever discover the truth?
The disgust on their faces would kill me.
I’m disgusting.
I’m the girl who begged her stepbrother to suck milk from her tits and fuck her like an animal in the middle of the living room.
And the worst part? I don’t just miss the physical release.
I miss him. The way he holds me after when the fire dies down.
The way he growls my name like I’m the only thing that matters in his entire universe.
By the time I pull into his driveway, my breasts are throbbing badly, the fabric of my bra digging into my swollen flesh.
The aching has gotten so much worse on the drive, every bump in the road sending a jolt of pain straight to my nipples.
I hurry inside, lock the door, and peel off my sweater in the hallway, unable to bear the restriction for another second.
The pads inside my bra are completely soaked, heavy and cool against my skin.
Two thick trails of milk run down my stomach as I stare at myself in the mirror, my skin flushed pink with anxiety and arousal.
I hook up the breast pump to my right breast with shaky hands, the plastic cold against my skin.
The strong mechanical suction kicks in, thump, thump, thump, and thick white streams of milk start spraying into the bottle.
The pull is intense, almost painful at first as the blocked ducts open, then it turns into that deep, needy pleasure I’ve become entirely addicted to.
I lie back on Ryker’s bed, spread my legs, and slide two fingers into my soaked pussy.
“Ryker…” I moan, voice cracking in the quiet bedroom.
I fuck myself harder, curling my fingers inside my slick walls, imagining it’s his thick cock stretching me open to the hilt.
The pump keeps sucking rhythmically while I rub my swollen clit with my thumb.
Tears start falling as the pleasure builds, blurring my vision.
I picture him so clearly, his huge body pinning me down, mouth latched onto my breast, sucking noisily while he pounds me deep into the mattress.
The way his stubble scratches my soft skin.
How perfectly he fills the emptiness inside me.
The guilt is crushing, but the taboo of it only makes me wetter, my body betraying my conscience.
I cry harder even as my hips buck desperately against my hand, chasing the friction.
I come with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently, pussy clenching around my fingers while milk leaks steadily from both breasts, dripping onto the sheets.
The orgasm is intense and ugly, mixing pleasure and shame until I can’t tell which is which anymore.
When it’s over I lie there panting, crying quietly, milk still slowly dripping onto the ruined bedding.
I grab my phone with trembling fingers and open the hidden folder.
All the videos and photos stare back at me, me riding him, his mouth covered in my milk, close-ups of his thick cock stretching me out.
My thumb hovers over the delete button, the little trash can icon glowing on the screen.
I should do it. I should erase every filthy second and try to be normal again for Beth's sake. But I can’t.
I close the app and curl up on my side, pressing my face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of gun oil and cedar that still lingers in the fabric.
I’m completely, pathetically addicted. And no matter how guilty I feel, no matter how many times I tell myself how sick and wrong this is, I know I’ll let him ruin me all over again the second he walks through that door.
The next evening I force myself out with friends, desperate to escape the quiet house.
We meet at a loud bar downtown where the bass vibrates through the floorboards.
The music is thumping, drinks are flowing, and for a little while I laugh along with everyone, trying to pretend I belong in this normal world.
My friend Sarah keeps nudging me, pointing out guys near the jukebox.
“Girl, that one in the black shirt has been staring at you for twenty minutes. Go talk to him!”
I shake my head and take another slow sip of my cocktail, the alcohol burning my throat. “I’m good. Not really looking right now.”
They tease me, calling me picky and old-fashioned, but I can’t tell them the truth. How can I explain that no one else feels right? No one else is six-foot-four of tattooed muscle with icy blue eyes that make me drip just by looking at me. No one else knows how to handle the heavy ache in my chest.
The next afternoon I make the mistake of agreeing to coffee with Josh.
We sit outside at a cute little café, the sun filtering through the trees.
He’s dressed nice, smiling, clearly excited to be out with me.
At first it’s okay. He talks about his grad applications and some indie band he likes, his voice steady and polite.
I nod and smile, trying so hard to feel a spark of normal attraction, but there's nothing.
“You look really pretty today, Lena,” he says, his eyes dropping to my chest for a split second before quickly looking away with a blush. “That sweater looks great on you.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling the fabric slightly away from my skin.
My breasts feel so heavy and full under the thick fabric, the heat of the sun making them tingle. They’ve been leaking more than usual all day, probably because I’ve been too anxious to pump properly on a schedule. The pads in my bra are already damp, the moisture sticking to my skin.
Josh leans forward, his hands resting on the table. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while. I’m really glad you said yes.”
Every compliment feels hollow, like wind blowing through an empty room.
All I can think about is how Ryker would have already pulled me into his lap, shoved his massive hand under my shirt, and sucked on my leaking breasts right there in the front seat if he wanted to.
He wouldn't ask permission; he would just take what belonged to him.
When we finish our coffees, Josh walks me to my car. The parking lot is quiet. He steps closer, leaning down, clearly going for a kiss. I turn my head at the last second, panic flaring in my chest, so his lips land on my cheek instead. My stomach twists with intense discomfort at the proximity.
“Josh… I’m sorry,” I say quickly, stepping back against the car door. “You’re really sweet, but I’m not in a place to date right now. There’s… someone else.”
His face falls, the disappointment obvious, but he tries to play it cool, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Oh. Yeah, no worries. I get it.”
The drive home is miserable, the silence of the car amplifying the thudding of my heart.
By the time I step inside Ryker’s house, my breasts are throbbing badly again.
I drop my bag on the floor, yank my sweater off over my head, and barely make it to the bedroom before peeling off my bra.
The soaked pads fall with a dull click onto the hardwood.
My nipples are dark and puffy, dripping white beads onto the floor.
I hook up the breast pump with shaky hands and lie back on Ryker’s bed, spreading my legs.
As the machine begins its steady rhythm, I slide two fingers into my soaked pussy and moan his name through fresh tears.
The guilt and pleasure twist together until I can’t tell them apart anymore.
When it’s over I curl up on his pillow, breathing in what’s left of his scent, completely addicted and terrified of what will happen when he finally comes home.