Janet was four months pregnant and aching. Her baby-bump belly was only just starting to be noticeable through all but the thickest of her jumpers, but her breasts had been quick to take to impending motherhood. Made hard and swollen with milk, her big breasts, more round and firm than they’d ever been, filled her with a sense of urgency for the baby inside her belly. She could no longer wear a bra; soft cotton ones offered no support for her overripe cleavage, and any sort with underwiring made her feel as if her breasts were constantly being clutched at and held tight by invisible hands. Because of this, she often went around with her large leaking bosom visible to her father, the weather too warm – and her hot flushes too frequent – to be able to endure jumpers any more. She was resigned to t-shirts or nightdresses or – having already bought them in preparation – maternity shirts with the flaps over the breast area, offering easy access to a hungry mouth… or helping hands.
Daddy, Janet knew, had been quick to appreciate the glow of pregnancy upon his daughter, even before her breasts had grown rounder, bigger, more achingly present upon her. Early on, when she had found out and she had told him (but who else to tell? Mother was always at work, and her baby-daddy had left her before there’d even been any news to tell!) he had spent day after day reaching under her shirts to press a firm hand against her flat stomach in keen anticipation for the wriggling and writhing to come. As she had – “finally!” Daddy had applauded, “my girl is showing her true womanhood!” – began to grow a real visible baby-bump, her father’s hands had grown more eager. Never one to wait for an invite, he no longer discreetly reached under her tops, but pulled them up to display the whole of her burgeoning belly, using both hands to rub it as if he was the father not only of her but of her child-to-be. She chided herself for these thoughts, knowing that some parents were like that, suddenly refusing to see their own child’s autonomy in excitement of feeling for the grandchild they would have. Besides, she was quick to find herself becoming giddy at her daddy’s enthusiasm, and even looked forward to his pressing hands, the look of glowing glee on his lined face as he felt her bump.
Her breasts were another area… As stated, Janet’s milk had been quick to fill her breasts, ballooning them to almost twice their original size by the time her bump appeared. She had noticed daddy eyeing her surreptitiously as her milky tits grew week by week, and he must have thought she was going out to get some new non-surgical breast-filler for them to grow so much. That’s what she had thought. But when Janet complained of the first swollen aches, when she noticed her shirts were being ruined by indiscreet milk leakages, her father was quick to suggest early pumpings. He didn’t even entertain the idea of breast-pads, but then, she had been vocal too in complaining of the sudden agonies of bras. She had taken his advice and brought a manual breast pump, feeling that an automatic one would leave her feeling too much like a cow left to be milked in a stall. But she found the handheld pump cumbersome, more difficult than she’d expected, and she was close to tears from the pain of her swollen breasts and her inability to work the damned thing, when her father had walked in on her – she had been trying in the kitchen of all places, late at night when she was sure her parents would be asleep.
“No, no, that’s no good,” her father had said. Janet had expected Daddy to – boundaries had indeed been broken down between them by her pregnant state – fix the pump to her naked chest and show her how it was done. She was shocked when, instead, he took the pump from her and placed it aside. He was quick and gentle to take one of her big breasts in both his hands, using one to cup the heavy underside of her tit, while the fingers of his other hand rubbed and massaged her sore erect nipple; those too had gotten bigger, and they poked out constantly like two-inch hard currants. She felt her face flush with embarrassment at her father’s forward touch, his obviously missing prudishness at the feel of his daughter’s tits between his hands, but she swiftly felt relief as he deftly squirted a first stream of milk from her weighty breast. Janet was sure she sighed in pleasure, though so little had been milked from her yet.
“Like this,” Daddy told her. She expected him to remove his hands and guide hers into their rightful place, but he’d continued softly kneading and massaging the hardness of her boob, rolling his fingers around her stiff nipple, letting loose a steady squirting stream of milk. There was too much relief at Daddy’s hands for Janet to feel any shame! She let him work away at her, only pausing to guide her to the sink (this wasn’t milk to be stored in bottles, but she needed to be free, if only temporarily, of the burden of her bursting milky chest), where he continued milking her for Atalar Escort the next few hours. First one breast, then the other. Janet’s stream of milk make a tinkling metallic sound as it splashed into the sink. By the time he was done, Janet’s father’s fingers were sticky with the last of her leaking milk, the jetting streams reduced to mere trickles, and her breasts felt so wonderfully light, so miraculously free, that she kissed him on the mouth swiftly in gratitude.
“Daddy,” she groaned quietly, appreciatively, “that felt wonderful! Oh, you’ve no idea…!”
“I can see it in your face,” he smiled, tired-eyed but fulfilled, at his daughter. Unbeknownst to Janet, her daddy knew how it had felt; it had been as wonderful for him to milk the bountiful breasts of his daughter as it had been for her to be milked by his more-than-capable hands. And the kiss she had given him… it had been almost as good as having her tits between his caressing, caring hands, squeezing her milk out stream by stream. It was just a shame it had all gone down the sink. Well, almost all of it… when Janet departed the kitchen for her bed, finally able to sleep more comfortably than she had in weeks, he slowly sucked the dried milk of his daughter from his fingers, savouring the slightly-sour but creamy taste.
If there was any awkward feelings or tension the next morning, neither daughter nor daddy made it apparent. In fact, it seemed to Janet and her father that things between them were more easy than ever; Daddy had milked her and released her tension, and if her breasts had been a sexual object before, now she was pregnant, she could only see them as an impediment to her sleep, her comfort, her choice of clothing. She was glad she had her daddy to help so willingly and with so little unease about it. That same week, he himself ordered her another set of maternity shirts, and he delighted in watching Janet walk around during the day wearing one, knowing the openable flaps fixed against her ripe breasts would make it so much more easy to access those milky domes, rather than having to think of his daughter struggling to pull a difficult shirt over her already sleep-deprived head. And they did come in handy (so to speak): that week, he helped his daughter no less than three times relieve her aching tits from their heavy load of milk; it seemed that every two days or so, no matter how much milk he had squeezed from her lush puffy mammary glands, his daughter’s body was consistent in its making her a milk-producing machine.
Janet’s father, though he would never confide in either his wife or daughter (and he was far more open with his daughter nowadays), often fantasised about Janet being connected to a modified milking machine, her naked form held prone in place as two great metal suckers slurped greedily at her tits, taking her milk down two tubes leading to great steel vats. As well as this, there had been a recent addition to his fantasy, that of the means of Janet becoming such a grand milk-maker! He envisaged some sort of contraption, the words he had for it vague, but the images fantastical, that would be inserted into her exposed lady-parts and would from that moment always be present inside her. Some thick cylindrical pipe that could, at the press of a button, be made to jerk back and forth and, with another button, deposit a fast shot of spunk directly into Janet’s womb, ensuring success of pregnancy again and again, and making sure her robust potent breasts (and, he couldn’t neglect his love for her larger, more rounder form, particularly that spilling ripening belly that grew heavier and bigger with each passing fortnight) would never shrink, would never run dry, would never stop giving his Janet such relief as she was drained daily… He was not prone to probing into what it meant, psychologically or otherwise, that he imagined so favourably his only daughter in a state of constant pregnancy, and certainly did not broach the almost compulsive thought of her being made pregnant, particularly not by a machine controlled by him in his mind. All of this Janet’s father kept to himself, and tried always to keep separate his nightly milking sessions with his daughter from the ongoing fantasy that visited him whenever he had a spare moment, be it whether his wife was beside him in bed or he was in the toilet…
He did, however, think of how much his and Janet’s secret sessions were limited; in so many months time she would finally give birth and all her attention (and he didn’t begrudge his unborn grandchild its mother’s time) would be taken away from him and his relaxing hands. More odious and stinging to his heart and mind was the thought that if Janet was ever to get pregnant again, the next man might stay around; worse still, he might well take Janet away and she would not even live with dear old dad to be able to indulge in being relieved of her milk if she so fancied. The next man to make her pregnant might even Escort Atalar want to milk her himself! And whatever Janet would think of that, her father knew he would be reassigned to just a bizarre father-daughter experience, which they had both got caught up in; he would not even have a true place as a fond beloved memory. She might even be repulsed by the memory of his large gentle hands around her breasts, the relief she felt as her milk was massaged out of her a doting moment gone far too far…!
Every night that he met Janet downstairs
– still late at night when his wife and her mother was asleep, aided by Nytol – he focused harder and harder on making her relief greater, wanting her need for him to match his need for her, and tried to bury the chronic anxiety he felt that every night was a night closer to it all being over. But his anxiety made him bold, too. He openly, brashly, enquired about the state of Janet’s sore boobs during the daytime, and stared at the shape of them through her maternity tops, hoping to see a milky damp patch around her nipples, even though he knew he’d caressed and milked them only hours before. Every two nights, like clockwork, they’d meet in the dimly lit kitchen, and he would palm his daughter’s breasts, touching them in such a way as would be considered incestuous and perverted in any other circumstance, making her breasts squirt out their warm streams of milk into the sink. As he had the first time, he continued to suck his fingers after Janet had retired, savouring more and more the milk dried around his digits. Until he didn’t.
Janet was due a milking. Her father had watched with barely restrained joy as her breasts grew large and hard and deeply in need of his special massage for the past several weeks as a routine, noting how they disobeyed his daughter’s desires for her breasts to remain smaller and less full; each milking made her hopeful that her father’s gentle handling would give her more than a couple of days reprieve, but time and again she soon became sore, aching, swollen, and all the time her belly continued to grow too. That is not to say that she didn’t look forward to her clandestine daddy-daughter meetings in the family kitchen. Daddy was so gentle, so caring as he grasped with tender firmness the flesh of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples. She was even considering asking daddy to massage soothing cream into her relieved breasts after she had been milked, so at ease was she with their arrangement.
So it came as a great surprise and torment when, one night, her father did not appear. She waited for an hour in the dark, expecting him to appear, thinking that perhaps just once he had overslept, had not heard or had forgotten to set his discreet alarm (kept under his pillow, set to silent, set in such a way so as never to disturb his wife, sleeping tablets or not), but believing that eventually he would appear, and she would laugh at her relief and they would continue as they had been doing. They would laugh in secrecy at her needless worry, as daddy placed his hands on her heaving bosom. But he didn’t appear, hour after hour, and her surprise turned to disappointment turned to frustration. Janet tried desperately to milk herself over the sink, but succeeded only in one small squirt before she winced at the cracking pain it elicited around her nipple. How did her father handle her so softly? She tenderly prodded at the hard tissue of her poor breasts, unable to do much more but sigh and feel her frustration simmer slowly into impotent anger. She felt abandoned. She felt hurt and betrayed. Had her father suddenly found their arrangement disagreeable, had he suddenly seen it as some perverse step too far in their relationship? That night, her tits and her eyes stung; her unmilked tits missed her father’s hands, and her eyes stung with tears caused by his absence. As if he wasn’t just upstairs, asleep in bed! But she couldn’t wake him, she didn’t have the heart to. Knowing she would not be able to sleep and would spend the rest of the night trying to find a position comfortable for her bulging belly and her achy boobs, she went upstairs all the same, and lay in her bed, fretting that she might now be without daddy’s soothing hands for the duration of her pregnancy. When the tears fell onto her pillow, she tried desperately to tell herself it was hormones – that wonderfully overused expression of impending motherhood.
Yet the next morning, her father acted no differently than any other morning. He was cheery and bright-eyed to see her, ignoring or not seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the red eyelids from sleep deprivation and crying. Janet wanted to be angry at him, and a part of her was, but she was too exhausted to do much but let her father carry on as he did. He urged her to sit down, as if she hadn’t just spent the night laying on a bed; he made her put her feet up, he made her a cup of tea. And when he placed the mug down on Atalar Escort Bayan the table next to her, she vaguely felt him pull her top up and press his hands against her belly, which now entered a room before the rest of her. Janet had let him carry on, intent on merely sitting down and trying to close her eyes, if not for sleep than for some reprieve from being open and all-seeing all night and the day before. Now she opened her eyes as her father groped her stretched ballooning belly with those hands that had been absent from her painful, tender breasts last night. Suddenly feeling furious, she pushed herself up as best she could, and demanded, “where were you last night?”
Daddy, to her tired eyes, did not seem shocked or hurt by her hard question; rather, it seemed, he was playing innocent! Or had he truly forgotten? Thinking about it, had either of them really stated that they should meet at such and such a time on certain days? Might her father not have thought that he was entitled to his sleep on whatever days he chose? These questions didn’t soothe Janet’s anger, in fact they kindled the flames of it higher, so dependent had she become on her father’s warm hands lovingly holding her breasts. She frowned at him, and he looked back at her like a child confused by a parent’s sudden change in emotional state. He had not removed his hands from her stomach, and Janet suddenly wanted to scream. She wanted to rip her maternity top altogether and thrust her father’s hands onto her unleashed gigantic bosom. Had he become suddenly blind to their hefty weight, their engorged size pressing tight against her top? Could he not see the milk-stains in bold damp circles around her nipples?
“I was asleep,” he finally stated, his voice quiet, almost sorrowful in his seeming confusion of being vilified for so human a decision. His simple answer struck her dumb, and she all of a sudden felt ashamed by her unspoken demands of his services. She had started to assume he would always be there as she wanted him, whether she said anything or not.
Far too tired to hide her feelings, Janet found herself spontaneously weeping, and swiftly hid her face in her hands. She felt even more ashamed as her father started trying to comfort her. She felt him stroke her hair, felt the sofa sink slightly as he sat beside her.
“Darling, sweetheart,” he soothed, “why are you crying? Was something wrong? Did you need me in the night?”
His questions sounded nonsensical to Janet. Feeling far too vulnerable to stop herself crying, she yelled through her tears, “Of course I needed you! My tits are swollen and sore and fucking full of milk that won’t stop leaking on my shirts, and you-” So emotional did she feel that her sobs of frustration were transforming into erratic laughter at her own words, so absurd did it all seem to her. “-You weren’t there to milk my fucking tits, and I couldn’t do it myself, and now-!” Again the tears, and then the laughter as she saw her father’s expression of concerned alarm. “-Now,” she said, voice slowing down from its hysterical rush, seeing only the humour in her situation and her needs, “now I’m shouting at you because you weren’t there last night to milk me!” She finished in a gale of laughter, weeping now with mirth, and laughing harder at her father’s shock, his male inability to grasp her emotional state. Then he laughed too, and the angry tension had left Janet, vacated the room entirely, and they were both laughing in each others arms, she was clinging to him as if he was a lifeboat in a rampant ocean.
There was a minor silence as their careening laughter faded away, before Janet, feeling as if she could compose herself better now, and still clutching her father’s arm, turned to him and said, “Daddy.”
He said, “Janet,” equally as composed, and then they were in an uproar again, until finally they sank against the couch, Janet’s father holding her like a relaxed lover, and Janet feeling more comfortable with her father than she had before with any man. This time the silence lingered and they did not disturb it. They sat in each others embrace, and this time Janet felt only peace – even from her relentlessly tender boobs – as her father stroked her belly.
They started at the same time: “did you feel that!” “Janet!”
Inside of her, right against her father’s hand, the baby had kicked or twisted in its amniotic haven. They had felt it – him or her – at the same time.
“Janet,” her father marveled, “I felt… your child.” For the briefest moment he had so wanted to say “our child,” and yet his vague detached sadness at the impossibility of that reality could not touch the joy of feeling that movement, his daughter’s baby – his grandchild – against his hand at the exact time she had felt the kicking in her womb. He suddenly, passionately wanted to kiss her, not even with the intrusion of tongue, but firmly and ardently on her mouth, as she had kissed him all those nights ago.
“Oh, daddy,” Janet gleefully cried. And what else to say? He could only guess at what she was thinking, as she could only wonder at her father’s thoughts. How were either of them to know they had, in one moment, wished for the same thing, to be able to declare it had been the movement of their child?