2. Jessica #2
“Too much?” His voice is gravel, low and steady, but I hear the restraint vibrating under it.
“Yes.” It comes out strangled, half moan, half sob. My nipples are throbbing, leaking in steady streams now, and every brush of his skin makes them tighten harder, sends fresh spurts sliding over his knuckles.
He adjusts immediately—lighter pressure, a different angle—and the clinical focus in his face almost undresses me further. Compress, release. Compress, release.
Warm milk leaks between his thick fingers, drips in fat, obscene droplets onto my cheap laminate floor with soft, wet sounds that mortify me.
The humiliation is so thick I can taste it on the back of my tongue, metallic and sweet, like shame and cream and the unbearable knowledge that Jordan Scott—my mother’s secret ex-husband—is milking me like a fucking animal in my own living room.
God, it’s not enough. The pressure in my breasts is still monstrous, a deep, throbbing burn that makes my knees tremble. His hands are too strong, too big, too much, and yet not nearly enough at the same time.
Every squeeze forces another whimper out of me. My blue eyes sting with unshed tears I refuse to let fall. I’m panting now, small desperate sounds I can’t swallow back, while my mind screams at me that this is insane, that I’m letting my stepfather handle me like this.
He switches to the right breast, repeating the methodical rhythm, but the relief stays maddeningly out of reach. My swollen, strawberry-tipped tits feel like they’re going to burst, skin stretched tight and shiny, veins standing out under the surface.
Milk beads at my nipples, rolls down the undersides in sticky rivulets, and the wet heat of it cooling on my bare stomach only makes the ache worse.
I can’t stop the thoughts crashing through my head: This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. But Christ, his hands feel like the only thing anchoring me to the earth right now. I want to beg him to stop. I want to beg him to never stop.
The contradiction is devouring me alive, and all I can do is stand there, shaking, while my body betrays me with every fresh leak and every helpless, bitten-off moan.
He pulls back. Looks at me.
"It's not working."
"I know."
His jaw works. I watch him think—watch the decision form behind his eyes before he says it out loud.
"I need to use my mouth."
The air leaves the room.
I stare at him. He stares back. Neither of us moves.
"That's..." I don't finish the sentence. Don't know how to finish it.
"More effective. The suction's gentler."
Gentler. He says it like it's a medical term. Like putting his mouth on my breast is a logical next step in a procedure we both agreed to.
And maybe it is.
But it doesn't feel logical.
It feels like crossing a line so far past the first one I can't even see where we started.
I should say no. Should tell him to take me to the hospital right now, that I'll deal with the pain until a doctor can see me, that this is too much and too far and we both know it.
But the pain is louder than the should.
"Okay."
He moves before I can take it back.
Jordan drops to one knee in front of me, then sinks back onto my sagging couch, thighs spread wide.
The move puts his face level with my chest. He grips my hips with those massive hands and tugs me forward until I’m standing between his spread knees, my soaked tank top bunched uselessly below my ribs.
My palms land on his shoulders before I can stop them. The muscle under my fingers is rock-hard, burning hot through his hoodie. I can’t look away from his face.
He doesn’t ask again. He just leans in, parts his lips, and seals them around my left nipple.
The first hard pull of his mouth rips a broken sound out of me. Suction. Wet heat. The scrape of stubble against sensitive skin. Everything at once.
The pressure that’s tortured me for hours suddenly releases in a hot rush straight onto his tongue. He swallows. I feel the bob of his throat against my breast and my knees almost buckle.
“Oh fuck?—”
Milk jets into his mouth in thick, sweet streams. He works me with slow, deliberate suction, gentler than his hands but a thousand times more devastating.
Every pull sends relief flooding through my chest like cool water on a burn. The ache drains away, replaced by something else I don’t have a name for. A deep, liquid heat that pools low in my belly and pulses between my legs.
I don’t recognize it. Never felt anything like it. My hips twitch forward without permission, chasing friction I don’t understand. Jordan’s fingers tighten on my hip bones, holding me steady, keeping me right where he wants me.
He switches sides. His mouth closes over my right nipple and the new angle drags a helpless moan from my throat.
The building feeling spikes sharper. My thighs shake. I try to hold still—I really do—but my body won’t listen. My hips roll against nothing, seeking something I can’t name.
The wet sounds of his mouth fill my tiny apartment. Obscene. Intimate. My hair falls across his forehead as I lean over him, panting.
He sucks harder. One big hand slides up my back, steadying me. The pleasure crests so fast I don’t see it coming.
White.
Everything goes white.
My whole body locks up. A sharp, brutal wave slams through me from my soaked tits straight down to my untouched cunt. I come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around nothing, hips jerking against his steady grip.
My pussy spasms hard, clenching on empty air while fresh milk spurts across his tongue. I’ve never come before. Didn’t know this was what it felt like. Didn’t know my body could do this.
Jordan keeps sucking through every pulse, drinking me down until the final tremor dies.
When he finally pulls off, the wet pop of his mouth leaving my nipple echoes between us. Milk and spit glisten on his lips.
His gray eyes are black, pupils blown wide. The controlled mask he walked in with is shattered—jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps, nostrils flared, breathing ragged like he just finished a shift on the ice.
Hunger. Raw, naked possession carves every line of his face. He looks like he wants to devour me whole. Like the only thing stopping him from shoving me onto the floor and taking everything is the last frayed thread of his discipline.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth almost chatter. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. Breath saws in and out of my lungs. The relief in my breasts mixes with the aftershocks still rippling through my pussy, and I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. Slick warmth coats my panties. I don’t know if any of this is normal. If virgins are supposed to come from a mouth on their tits. If what just happened makes me broken or filthy or his.
We stare at each other.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence is louder than the orgasm still echoing in my bones. The thing we just did hangs between us, heavy and undeniable, like a bomb with the pin already pulled.
I should do something. Say something. Move.
I don't.
I've never seen anyone look at me like that.
I don't know what to do with it.
He stands. The movement is controlled—too controlled, like he's forcing himself to move slowly when everything in his body wants to move fast. He doesn't touch me again.
Just reaches for my tank top and pulls it back up over my shoulders, covering me with the same careful deliberation he used to uncover me.
"Better?"
I nod. Can't make words yet.
The pain is gone. The pressure eased. My breasts still feel tender but the sharp unbearable fullness is gone, replaced by the kind of ache that's manageable. Bearable.
But something else is humming under my skin now. Something warm and liquid and entirely new.
He steps back. Puts space between us. The air rushes into the gap and I can breathe again.
Then his expression shifts. Resets. Like he's putting something away that he'll deal with later. When he speaks, his voice is rough but certain.
"Pack your things. You're not staying here anymore."
I blink.
"What do you mean?"
"We'll go to the doctor first. Then you can stay at my place."
The words land but don't process. My brain is still offline from whatever just happened between us, and now he's talking about packing and doctors and his place like those are logical next steps.
"I can't do that."
"Why."