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© Copyright 2017, Veronica Sloan, All Rights Reserved
NOTICE: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer: This story contains explicit content, including graphic descriptions of sexual intercourse and consensual incest. It is intended for adults only. All characters depicted are 18-years-old and older. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Veronica Sloan. Cover photo © Dmitroza.
* * *
Zoey's hormones are out of control and she can't stop producing milk. Now her fertile body is begging for relief. Can Zoey's father restrain his hunger for her swelling breasts, or will he drink from that forbidden spring?
© Copyright 2017, Veronica Sloan, All Rights Reserved
* * *
The problem started much earlier than any of us realized. I may have been the first to notice the change in Zoey's body, but I wasn't about to tell my wife. I didn't want her thinking I was a weirdo. She already thought I was a dirty old man.
It was my own fault. I made the dumb decision to open my mouth at one of Zoey's last volleyball games. My wife asked me which team had the better lineup and I, speaking from the most primitive part of my brain, told her both lineups looked pretty stacked.
Well, that went over like a lead balloon.
I was just trying to make a joke but my wife was wildly offended. "What's the matter with you?" she hissed. We were sitting in the stands with the other parents and surrounded by screaming idiots but she still went out of her way to muffle her voice. "Those girls are the same age as your daughter!"
By her tone, I gathered that I was supposed to be ashamed. Most of Zoey's teammates were eighteen and the rest were just a few months shy of being legal. I understood why I wasn't supposed to make jokes about their bodies, but each girl was a living testament to good breeding. Tall and athletic, with muscular thighs and asses seemingly carved by the grandest Renaissance artists, they were goddesses chasing after a pale sun. I was, in my caveman way, complimenting their physical prowess. My wife did not approve.
I wasn't sure if she wanted me to pretend like I didn't notice or if she was actually disgusted that I had any carnal thoughts remaining in my middle-aged brain. On the rare occasions when she was willing to discuss our sex life, she spoke in the wistful tone of a high school quarterback reminiscing about his golden years. In other words, our sexy times were long behind us and it was time to move on.
That might have been fine for Beth but my libido never got the memo. I was barely 44-years-old and my cock still thought it was 1991. I was sorry my comments embarrassed my wife but I couldn't pretend I was immune to hot bodies and fertile females.
That's the part about fatherhood that no one prepares you for: Dealing with bouncy young women. When your wife refuses to use your bed for anything more exciting than stacking fancy pillows, you can't help notice how much everyone has grown.
So when I noticed that Zoey's shirts seemed a little tighter than normal, I kept my comments to myself. Of course I was confused by the biological miracle taking place before me, but what did I know? I wasn't a doctor, I was her father. Doctors could take scientific interest in a young lady's mammaries; dads were much less welcome. The strangest thing was, I knew Zoey was an early bloomer. We'd had all the talks and watched all the films and read all the books on puberty and pregnancy. That was done with, thank God. Now she was eighteen and in her first year of college but it seemed her body was still...developing.
It had been hard enough averting my eyes when she was just her regular, jiggly self. Zoey started off with a smaller-than-average bust so she was pretty cavalier about wearing bras in the house. I grew accustomed to gazing over her shoulder or above her head when she was prancing around in her halter tops. Until October, that tactic worked fine. Then she became impossible to ignore.
* * *
It was a Friday morning and I was taking my time with breakfast. I was reading the paper, occasionally sipping from my coffee, and happily minding my own business, when Zoey blew through the kitchen like a blonde hurricane. My paper was whipped along in her wake.
She pulled open the freezer, the cupboards, the pantry, frantically searching for something to munch on before she missed her first class. To ease her savage hunger, I offered her my toast. In response, she let out the most loving sigh, as if this simple gift was all her heart's desire. She grabbed the toast from my hand and planted a big, wet kiss on my cheek. I noticed (and tried not to notice) the way her breasts squashed against my shoulder when she did. They were far warmer, softer, and heavier than I remembered. I didn't think I stared, but after Zoey vanished from the kitchen my wife cleared her throat angrily. I looked up from my newspaper. "Huh?" I said.
"What is the matter with you?" Beth snarled.
I had no idea what she was talking about, so I said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Beth slammed her plate on the counter, nearly cracking it in two. "Do you think I'm an idiot? You should be ashamed of yourself."
I laid my paper flat on the table and stared at her, aghast. "Beth, I seriously don't--"
"You were staring down Zoey's shirt!" she exploded. "You were ogling your own daughter, Mitch. How loathsome can you get?"
"Whoa!" I shouted, holding up my hands in defense. "Maybe it looked that way from where you were standing, but--"
"From where I was standing it looked like she was in danger of being assaulted!" Beth screamed. She slammed the plate on the counter again and this time it shattered.
I was too bewildered to be upset. I was used to my wife accusing me of lechery (I enjoyed dirty jokes and was candid about Zoey's more endowed teammates), but never for my own daughter. Yes, my eyes may have roved down Zoey's shirt for a moment but only because they monopolized my field of vision! Over the past month it seemed that our little girl's bust had expanded by at least a cup size. I wasn't proud of myself for noticing that, but there was a lot to notice.
Further denial would only upset Beth, so instead I chose the diplomatic route. "Well, dear, if I can be candid for a moment...do you think, maybe, Zoey's going through a growth spurt?"
Beth's nostrils flared.
"I'm serious!" I said. "Look, I know you hate to hear this from me but she's...bigger. You can tell, right?" I was afraid that I was digging my own grave but my wife seemed to harken to the truth in my voice.
"That...that still doesn't mean you can stare, Mitch."
"Of course not!" I said. "But she is, right? I'm not crazy?"
Beth stroked her throat. "Well, maybe. At first I thought she'd switched to a padded bra but... It's not a growth spurt, Mitch. She's already taller than me. And she was the first of her friends to get her period. Puberty's over."
"I know," I said. "But when does that area stop growing?"
"Zoey never had much growing to do there."
True enough. Zoey the adult was cuter than either of her parents, but where her bosom was concerned she fell short of her mother. Beth had Cs when we met, which plumped up to Ds after she had Zoey. Zoey, on the other hand (though blessed with a backside that put even Beth's sister to shame), was a perky B cup at best.
From the way they'd pushed against my shoulder when Zoey reached for my toast, I knew something had changed. It wasn't padding. The tits that jiggled inside my daughter's shirt now had significant weight.
The weight was on Beth's mind, too. "Maybe she's put on a few pounds?" she suggested. "For some girls that's where it goes. Mine goes all to my hips."
"But she's lost weight," I said. It wasn't a lot, but it was noticeable. The rigorous schedule of Zoey's college classes had slimmed her pink cheeks of their youthful baby fat.
Now Beth looked concerned. "Maybe I'll talk to her," she said. I thought that was the end of it, but then she caught a glimpse of the shattered plate and remembered her prior fury. She whirled on me anew. "But there's no excuse for ogling her, Mitchell! I know you're a dirty old man, but try to behave yourself."
"You're nuts," I said.
"Am I?" she snapped. "I know you're just waiting for volleyball to start up again. You'll have a whole harem of co-eds to drool over."
"Where is this coming from, Beth?" I asked.
"You know damn well," she said. "I found your dirty little magazine in the bathroom last night."
Shit, I thought. My "dirty little magazine" was the Sears catalog. It was the hardest pornography I could get away with in this house of horrors. "Sorry," I sighed. "Won't happen again."
"It better not," she said. "I have things to do, Mitchell. I'm sure you'd prefer me naked in our bed on round-the-clock call, but I refuse to be a slave to your desires."
I shrugged. "Hon, I'd settle for a quick go-round right here on the floor, if you were willing."
Beth rolled her eyes. "See? It's never enough. I give and I give and you can't think of anyone's needs but yourself."
"We went to Pottery Barn last weekend, we went shopping for curtains the weekend before that, I bought you a new car for our anniversary. When was the last time we had sex?" I asked.
"Last week!" she fumed.
"Last week you said you were too tired after staring at pottery."
"Then it must have been the week before that," she replied.
"No, that was curtains. Then you went to lunch with Mel and the girls."
My wife glared at me. "You're remembering it wrong. I'm sure we had sex."
"Yes, dear," I sighed. The honest answer was that neither of us could remember the last time we had sex. But if I let it go then Beth would let me finish my paper in peace. At this point, I reflected darkly, that was the raciest outcome I could hope for.
I tried not to stare. She was my daughter, for Christ's sake. But through October and into November, Zoey's breasts continued to swell. They grew until they could no longer be contained by her flimsy little bras. Even her t-shirts, tight to begin with, struggled to hold together. I started breaking out in cold sweats whenever I heard her coming down the hall, torn between my fatherly respect for my little girl and my lifelong obsession with big tits.
When Zoey started bouncing around the house without any bra at all, I couldn't just stare at the ceiling. Daughter or not, her boobs were now works of art. They wobbled with her every step, their puffy nipples straining against her tops. In the morning she tried to hide them by wearing sweaters, but those sweaters, purchased while she was still a modest B cup, now molded to her buxom chest in a way that put Lana Turner to shame. In the evening, when she returned from work, she immediately changed out of her sweater and into a t-shirt or, God help me, a camisole.
To my sex-starved brain, my daughter's body was now a temptation.
Make no mistake, Zoey was already a beautiful girl. With a snub nose and pink cheeks, pale skin and lustrous golden hair, she was a soft creature in a jagged world. She was hunted like a rabbit from the first day she set foot on campus. Though taller than her mother, her sweet face and shy demeanor made her more adorable than statuesque. But that was before she jiggled whenever she laughed, before her cleavage was deeper than the Grand Canyon. Now Zoey was the living embodiment of fertility, like a goddess of the harvest come to bless our crops (or plant me six feet under).
My daughter finally had the T to match her magnificent A, and I worried myself sick about the ravenous male attention she was attracting. Thankfully, her natural shyness prevented her from reciprocating. Volleyball and school kept her busy, and most of the boys that pursued her were too meatheaded to be of interest. There was also Zoey's own confusion about what her body was doing. She was scared of the transformation, and the urges that accompanied her raging hormones.
I still remember the way her voice trembled when she crept into my office that late November evening...
* * *
"What is it, princess?" I asked, swiveling in my seat. I gasped when I saw her face.
She was as pale as a ghost, tears sparkling in her eyes. Her golden hair was matted and her cheeks were red, clear signs that she'd spent the last hour with her face jammed into her pillow. Reflexively, I raised my arms to enfold her in a comforting hug. That was before I saw what she was wearing.
Zoey was draped in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Well, it used to be an oversized t-shirt. I had bought it for her at a Katy Perry concert when she was fourteen. She wanted an XL so she could sleep in it. Once upon a time, it fell past her knees, but her legs had lengthened considerably since then. The frayed hem now dangled precariously over her naked thighs.
"Daddy, I'm scared," she whispered. When she moved towards me, I caught sight of her cotton panties, pink and snug against her mound. I raised my hand to block them from view. My daughter's tears were supposed to trigger a paternal reaction in me that canceled out my male gaze. Instead, Zoey had become so much woman that I had the opposite reaction. My instinct was to take her, squeeze her, and smother her tears in carnal affection.
I bit my tongue as her smooth thighs settled over my leg. She had every right to sit on me, and I had no right to complain, but still a monster raged inside me. Before her latest "growth spurt," Zoey's shirt shrouded her like a tent. Now her enormous boobs made Katy Perry's face jut out like she was in 3D. They crashed against my chest when Zoey threw herself into my arms. "Something's wrong!" she moaned.
No shit. If she squirmed any closer she'd be on top of my erection. I struggled to put that out of my mind as I stroked her back. "It's okay. Talk to me, honey."
She buried her face in my shoulder and sniffed and sniffed and sniffed. With each shudder, her boobs pushed harder into my chest. She clawed at my other shoulder with her nervous fingers and I prayed to all that was holy for my cock to behave itself. Not now, I silently begged, not when she's so vulnerable and scared.
"Daddy..." Zoey whimpered.
Oh, but it was torture. Through the old shirt, I could feel the texture of her ripe mammaries. They were firm but flowed like warm pudding. Her nipples were either hard or so large that they stuck out regardless. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen my wife's nipples on purpose. Focus, I warned myself. While I warred with my immoral libido, Zoey had descended into a fit of coughs and sniffles. I stroked the back of her golden head and murmured softly to calm her down. "Whatever's going on, we can fix it," I said. "Just tell me."
"God, isn't it obvious?" Her voice bubbled out of her. "My...my boobs won't stop growing!" I went rigid in my seat. Sensing the tension in my muscles, Zoey hiccuped in embarrassment. "You haven't noticed?" she said.
What was I supposed to say, the truth? Zoey, your father's been drooling over your tits for the last month? No way. "Um. Well," I said, "your mother may have mentioned something..."
With a moist snort, Zoey leaned back in my lap. Her eyes were so wet and her face so puffy that I couldn't tell if her expression was sardonic or despairing. "I'm a double-D now!" she said.
"O-oh," I stammered. "And that's...bigger than you were?"
She glared at me, angry now. "Yes!"
"Are...are you sure?"
She slapped my chest. "Yes! I measured them last week. But I think they've grown even bigger since then!"
My cock was pulsing in my pants. I tried to hide it by laying a comforting hand on my daughter's thigh and gently scooting her away from my erection. But even the flex of her abductor muscles, honed from years of athletic resistance, gave me reason to throb. Her body was a temple of femininity. I wanted to worship it. "I don't think it's possible for your chest to grow that much, princess," I said, feigning ignorance. "It's probably just in your head."
For Zoey, that was the last straw. Gripped by a frustration that could not be contained--the white hot fury of a teenage girl--she screamed in my face. "Look at them!" she demanded. Faster than I could stop her, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up.
It had been years since I'd given serious thought to God and the devil, but in that instant Zoey convinced me they were one and the same. Only God could have created the awesome beauty that lay before me, and only the devil would dangle her succulent tits in my face. My sweet Zoey was damnation in the flesh, the adorable face now combined with the body of a fertile succubus. Gone were the perky B cups, replaced with juicy Es. Her pale breasts were swollen out of proportion, so heavy that they drooped upon her slim torso. But Zoey was still perky! The added weight did not compromise their shape into sagging balloons. Remarkably firm for their size, her tits were fat and full to bursting--like fruit begging to be plucked. Her areolas were large and the nipples a dark, cherry red. They turned up towards my quivering lips at an inquisitive angle.
As I struggled to breathe, my daughter rolled her fingers down the sides of her giant boobs. "I have stretch marks," she moaned. "See?"
Oh, I saw. They ran along the sides and underneath, but not the top. That translucent skin was threaded with ghosts of blue veins. Confronted by that heaving cleavage, I could do nothing but pant like a starving coyote.
And then I noticed her nipples were wet.
If I was hard, I no longer worried about my daughter finding out. My whole body felt like an erection. I was more worried about having a heart attack. That frightened muscle punched the hell out of my ribcage as I watched Zoey's juicy nipples drip onto her muscular thighs. "Z-Zoey," I gasped. "You're--"
"I know!" she cried. "It's... I think it's milk?"
My daughter was lactating. My daughter's tits were filled with milk! "H-how long has this been happening?" I stammered.
Zoey twisted in my lap. "Dad, are you hard?"
Of course I was. Guilt and lust wrestled in my stomach, my spinal cord, my every major organ. I was furious at my daughter, frightened for her, wracked by a terrible blend of both. Those twisted emotions that my daughter stirred inside me, the torture and elation of her beauty, woke the caveman in my bones. It was instinct to reach out.
Zoey whimpered when my fingers closed over her perfect breasts. "D-don't! They're sore!"
I didn't listen. I squeezed her harder. My thumb skated beneath one cherry nipple and forced a spurt of milk from the pores. Zoey cried out again, shaking in my lap, and I barely stopped myself from biting her tit and draining her dry. "Th-they hurt?" I murmured.
"Yes!" she said. Her eyes burned into mine. She was angry that I was touching her but, for some strange reason, she was unwilling to pull away. When she leaned her chest into my groping hands, I realized why: she thought I was examining her! Zoey's sweet, trusting heart could not believe her father would fondle her like a pervert. She thought I was squeezing her as part of some medical investigation.
But she wasn't an idiot either. She shifted in my lap as I tried to fit both breasts in my shaking hands. "Daddy," she whispered. "You are hard..."
"It's not you. I'm thinking about something else."
"Dad," she intoned, as if she were the adult and I a naughty schoolboy. There was a flicker of a smile on her face, just before she winced in pain. "N-no. They're too tender. Please stop. Stop."
Pulling my fingers off her chest was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. (Second hardest, if you count the throbbing erection that was pinned to Zoey's thigh.) Zoey quickly pulled her shirt over her enormous tits and slid out of my lap. She didn't look at my crotch again but she chewed furiously on her lip. Judging by her panicked expression, she regretted this whole ordeal. "Do...do you think this is normal?" she asked.
My voice was hoarse when I answered. "No, honey. I'll make an appointment with the doctor. Right away." Zoey didn't move. Unable to meet her eyes, I looked down at her quivering thighs. So smooth, so succulent. I could see the shadows of her buttocks, where the naked cheeks curved under her shirt. Her little toes were dug into the carpet. She was practically naked below the waist and I wanted to see it all.
Her voice dragged me back to reality. "Did...did they feel weird?" she whispered.