Page 87 of Wanting What’s Wrong

Five

Jenna

T he 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."

I nod, teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

He drops the bags and cookies on the long chrome and linoleum kitchen table and crosses the room in four long steps. “Get those tits out. Daddy’s hungry.”

I move. Because I’d do anything he says and because the demand in his voice brooks no argument.

I work the two buttons holding the flannel shirt closed, then it slips off my shoulders as I press my backside to the wooden table, hands flat, hips tilted to thrust out my chest.

He crouches in front of me, and starts to suck.

This time, it’s slow. Worship. Wonderous. Intimate.

I’m feeding him. Giving him substance in a way no one else can.

His hands stroke my shoulder, my sides, my hips. His mouth stays latched as he drinks. Moaning every few seconds like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Moving from one breast to the other, kneading them with his fingertips, squirting the cream deep into his throat.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against my skin. “Such a sweet little cow, makin’ all this for me.”

I moan, my legs shaking.

“I’ll take care of you, Jenna. Feed you. Breed you. Keep you full forever.”

That word—breed—makes something inside me snap. I take hold of my own tit and squeeze, milking myself into his mouth as I cry out.

His hand work my hips, pushing, pulling me across the table onto my back, dropping his jeans and lines himself up again, I don’t hesitate.

I just let my legs fall wide open, and watch his face as his eyes drink me in.

I want it. All of it. Every filthy promise.

“Say it,” he grits. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to breed me, Daddy.”

His growl is pure animal as he takes me again, harder, deeper, pouring into me with every brutal, beautiful thrust. He reaches up, takes his hat from his head and puts it on mine.

“I can’t see.” I giggle as the blunt force of his cock probes at my entrance.

“That’s the idea. I’m gonna fuck you blind baby. You just lay there, don’t think, don’t look. Just feel. Feel every fucking inch of Daddy.”

He doesn’t stop until I’m wrecked and dripping and marked from the inside out.

Until I’m full.

Exactly how he wants me.

Exactly how I need to be.