Milked by Daddy and My Three Brothers: Taboo Hucow BDSM Lactation Daddy Daughter Son Incest
Table of Contents
MILKED BY DADDY AND MY THREE BROTHERS
Mia Minx
CHAPTER 1
The morning light seeped through the kitchen curtains in thin, watery strips, casting pale rectangles across the scarred wooden table. Bessie had not slept. She had waited. The house held its breath around her, the silence of Ashveil Manor pressing against her skin like a hand at her throat.
She stood at the sink, her reflection ghosted in the dark window above the basin. The porcelain of her skin caught the dim glow, gray eyes half-lidded and fixed on nothing. Her wavy black hair clung to her neck in damp tendrils, the product of restless hours and the persistent heat that radiated from her core. The thin cotton of her nightgown—pale, almost translucent—did nothing to hide the rigid peaks of her nipples straining against the fabric, the dark circles spreading beneath them where milk had leaked and dried and leaked again.
Her breasts ached. They always ached now, heavy and full and obscene in their perpetual readiness. She cupped them through the cotton, feeling the weight of them in her palms, the heat radiating from swollen tissue. Milk beaded at her nipples, darkening the fabric in twin stains that spread outward in slow, shameful blooms.
She should not be doing this. The thought curled through her mind like smoke, acrid and sweet. Her brothers slept somewhere above her. Her father had arrived late the night before, his truck rattling up the gravel drive while she pressed her thighs together in her bedroom and listened.
Bessie pulled the neckline of her nightgown down, exposing her left breast. The air of the kitchen touched her nipple and it tightened further, a deep rose color darkening toward crimson. Milk already gathered at the tip, pearling there before she touched it, before she squeezed her own flesh and watched it arc in a thin stream against the sink's stainless steel.
The sound it made—faint, wet, rhythmic—filled the empty room.
She worked herself slowly, methodically, one hand kneading her breast while the other traveled lower. The shame built in her chest like pressure, delicious and suffocating. She thought of Cale's calloused hands, the way he had looked at her across the dinner table the night before, his belt undone after the meal, the heavy line of his cock visible through denim. She thought of Jamie's crew cut and his gray eyes, dark with something he would not name. She thought of Samson's marble stillness, the way he watched her like she was already his.
She thought of her father, Blake.
Her fingers found her clit through the soaked cotton of her underwear. The kitchen table waited behind her, scarred and solid, and she imagined herself spread across it, imagined the cool wood against her back while they—while he—
"Well."
The voice came from the doorway, and Bessie's hand stilled. Milk dripped from her exposed breast onto the floor, a slow, obscene patter. She did not turn. She could not. The heat that flooded her face felt like a burn, spreading down her neck to her chest, her already-flushed skin darkening further.
"Look at this," Cale said. His voice held the rough edge of morning, sleep-rough and knowing. She heard his bare feet on the tile, the jingle of his belt buckle loose at his waist. "Sam. Jamie. Come see what our little sister's been up to."
The footsteps multiplied. Bessie's fingers remained trapped between her legs, frozen in the act, and she watched her own milk drip onto the floor between her feet, the puddle spreading there, evidence she could not hide or deny.
"Fuck," Jamie breathed. He appeared at Cale's shoulder, his gray eyes fixed on her breast, still exposed, still leaking. His chest—she saw it now, bare and toned, glistening faintly with sweat—rose and fell in a rhythm too fast for rest.
Samson said nothing. He simply watched, his dark hair disheveled, his cheekbones catching the thin light. His jeans rode low on his hips, unbuttoned, and she could see the shape of him there, heavy and thick even in stillness.
"Turn around," Cale commanded.
Bessie's hand fell from between her legs. She turned slowly, her nightgown still pulled down on one side, her breast gleaming wet in the morning light. The fabric of her underwear clung to her, soaked through, and she felt the cool air touch her there, knew they could see the outline of her cunt through the thin cotton, knew they could smell her arousal thick in the small space.
"Jesus," Jamie muttered. He adjusted himself through his own underwear, the motion absent, automatic. "Look at her. She's fucking dripping."
"Quiet," Samson said. His voice cut through the room like a blade. "Daddy's coming."
The word—Daddy—sent a fresh pulse through Bessie's core. She felt her pussy clench around nothing, felt more wetness spread between her thighs. The shame of it, the filthy wrongness of wanting her father to see her like this, milk running down her stomach, cunt soaked and ready—it twisted through her like a physical thing, tightening her nipples further, making her breath catch in her throat.
The footsteps in the hallway were heavy, deliberate. The door to the kitchen swung open, and there he was, filling the frame with his broad shoulders, his silver beard catching the light. He wore nothing but sweatpants, low on his hips, and she could see the thick outline of his cock already hardening against the fabric, the slight upward curve she knew too well from her dreams.
He took in the scene in silence. His gray eyes traveled from her face to her exposed breast, to the wet spot on her underwear, to the puddle of milk at her feet. His jaw tightened. Something shifted in his expression, a slow rearrangement of features that made her stomach drop with anticipation and fear.
"On the table," her father, Blake said. His voice carried the weight of command, the authority of years, the specific power of a man who had never been disobeyed. "Now."
Bessie moved. Her legs trembled as she walked to the table, as she hoisted herself onto its scarred surface, feeling the cool wood against her thighs through the soaked cotton. The men surrounded her, Cale and Jamie and Samson closing in from three sides, Daddy approaching from the head of the table with the slow inevitability of a storm front.
"Hold her," Her father said.
Cale's hands found her wrists first, his calloused palms rough against her skin as he pulled her arms above her head, stretching her body flat against the table. Jamie moved to her legs, his broad hands wrapping around her ankles, pulling them apart until she was spread open, her wet underwear the only barrier between her cunt and their eyes. Samson stood at her side, his gray eyes fixed on her breast, still leaking milk in slow, rhythmic drips onto her stomach.
"Please," Bessie whispered. She did not know what she was asking for. Forgiveness, permission, more—her mind could not sort the threads of her desire from her shame.
"Please what?" Blake asked. He stood at the head of the table now, looking down at her, his beard catching the light. He reached out, slowly, and hooked two fingers into the neckline of her nightgown. With a single motion, he tore it down the center, exposing both breasts to the cool air, to his gaze, to the room.
Milk arced from her nipples immediately, the pressure of her arousal forcing it out in thin streams that splashed against her ribs, her stomach, the wood beneath her. Bessie gasped, her back arching off the table, her hips rising involuntarily toward the empty air.
"Look at this," Blake murmured. He reached out with both hands, cupping her breasts from below, feeling their weight, their heat. His thumbs brushed her nipples and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the kitchen tiles. "So full. So desperate. You been milking yourself in our kitchen, little girl? Making a mess where we eat our breakfast?"
"Yes," Bessie gasped. The word tore out of her, confession and plea. "Yes, Daddy, I—"
"You what?" His grip tightened, his fingers sinking into her swollen flesh. Milk sprayed in chaotic arcs, splashing his forearms, his chest, the table. "You couldn't wait? Had to get your hands on this sweet little cunt while your brothers slept upstairs?"
"Please," she moaned. Her hips rolled against nothing, seeking friction, seeking the pressure she needed. "Please, I need—"
"You need to be punished," Samson said. His voice came from her right, low and certain. He reached out and wiped a streak of milk from her ribs, brought his fingers to his mouth, tasted her there. His gray eyes darkened. "You need to learn what happens to greedy girls who touch what's not theirs."
Blake's hands worked her breasts in slow, deliberate squeezes. Milk spurted in rhythmic jets, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet kitchen. Bessie thrashed against the table, held down by Cale's grip on her wrists, Jamie's hands on her ankles, her body caught between the pressure of Daddy's palms and the desperate emptiness between her legs.
"She's making a mess," Cale observed. His voice was rough, strained. Bessie turned her head and saw him fully for the first time, his athletic frame tense, his belt completely undone now, his jeans riding low enough to show the thick base of his cock where it strained against fabric. "Fucking soaking the table. Look at her, Daddy. She's not even sorry."
"She will be," Her father said. He leaned down, his beard brushing her sternum, and closed his mouth around her left nipple.
The heat and wet suction sent a bolt of pure sensation through Bessie's core. She screamed, the sound tearing out of her throat, her body bucking against the hands that held her down. Her father suckled hard, his tongue working against her nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and milk flooded his mouth in thick streams that spilled from the corners of his lips, ran down his beard, dripped onto her heaving stomach.
"Oh god," she panted. "Oh god, Daddy, please—"
He released her breast with a wet pop, milk still flowing freely from the dark red tip, and moved to the other. His hand replaced his mouth on the first, squeezing in rough pulses that matched the rhythm of his sucking. Bessie's vision blurred at the edges. She could feel her pussy clenching in empty spasms, could feel the wetness spreading beneath her, pooling on ...