Sweet, Delicious Cream: A Milking Fantasy

by Joan Farraneau

  SWEET, DELICIOUS CREAM

  A Step Milking Fantasy

  Copyright © 2016 Joan Farraneau

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, including photo-copying, recording, or any other electronic or mechanical methods, without express permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  First Printing, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real places, events, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Thanks!

  <3 Joan

  Sweet, Delicious Cream

  1.

  Jack

  The smell of bacon greets me when I open the door. Tara, my 19-year-old stepdaughter, is standing next to the stove, her blonde curly hair piled messily atop her head. She’s wearing a tank top that’s too small to contain her massive chest and a pair of low-rise jeans that hug her hips so tightly I swear they are a part of her body. As I step into the kitchen out of the late-summer heat, she turns towards me, a big smile on her face.

  “Pa!” she squeals, dropping her spatula and racing across the kitchen into my arms. As always, she’s braless, her large tits bouncing up and down. Raising her as a single man, and seeing as we live out in the country where no one ever sees us, I just never got around to teaching her some of the things other ladies learn. Because of it, she’s shameless, no clue that her body can drive a man crazy. In this case, that man happens to be her stepfather.

  I pick her up and spin her around while she nuzzles her face into my neck. I’m sweaty from being out in the field, though she doesn’t mind. Her hair smells of strawberries and lilacs. I take a deep whiff, enjoying the feel of her body pressed against mine. Though she’s no taller than 5’2” and as light as a feather, her proportions are incredible. Body just like her mother’s. I can feel her hard nipples pressing against my chest. It won’t be long before she’ll need to be milked.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she coos. Dropping her arms from around my neck, she turns and skips back to the stove, her perfect, ripe ass swaying side to side. “So many fun things happened while you were out working. After you left, I went down to the creek and fished for a while. I didn’t catch anything, but it was nice to sit and listen to the birds in the trees. Plus, I got to work on my tan. It’s always so nice to lay out naked in the sun. Then, after lunch back at the house, I…”

  I plop down in the nearest chair, enjoying Tara’s chatter. She’s always so talkative at the end of the day. It’s what happens when you live twenty miles from the nearest town and you hardly ever see anyone but the man who raised you.

  “So then I thought ‘why not make breakfast for dinner?’. It’s the greatest meal there is, don’t you think?”

  I watch her backside as she flips the bacon in the pan and stirs the eggs. She bends down and pulls open the oven door, her pussy lips outlined beneath her jeans. Between her legs, I can see large lumps of dough on a tray in the oven.

  “Just a few more minutes and the biscuits’ll be ready,” she says, straightening and turning back towards me. “How was your day, Pa? Can I get you a beer?”

  Before I can respond, Tara struts over to the fridge, pulls it open, and extracts a can of my favorite brewski. She pulls the tab and it hisses open. As she walks over to me and place it on the table, my eyes fall down her front. Her jeans are so low on her hips I can see the top tufts of her blonde pubes. I take a deep breath, imagining before I can stop myself what she must taste like, her pink little pussy lips so juicy and sweet. I know she’s never been with a man—there’s been no men in her life but me. Does she still have her hymen? Or did she break it herself? An image of her naked on her back, her legs splayed open, her fingers pushed inside of her flashes through my mind. Feeling guilty, I push the thoughts out of my mind.

  She sets the can on the table and smiles down at me, seemingly unaware of what I am thinking. She’s so innocent. She has no idea that the man who raised her thinks such naughty things about her. I’m not even sure she knows what sex is. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about. Despite myself, I raise my eyes slowly up her body, taking in her every curve. Her swollen tits hang heavily against her chest; her rose pink areolas are visible through her shirt.

  “Thanks, baby,” I say, grabbing the can and taking a swig. After a long day out in the sun, there’s nothing better than returning home to the smell of frying bacon, a cold beer and a beautiful woman. “My day was good. Got the field planted.”

  “Wow,” she says, wiping a fleck of dirt off my shoulder. “You must be so tired. Good thing I made us some dinner.”

  “Good thing,” I say, reaching out and caressing the exposed skin of her hip. “You’re so sweet to me, darling. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

  She knows what I’m really asking, though it doesn’t mean the same thing to her as it does to me.

  “Full,” she sighs, cupping her breasts through her think top and lifting them one at a time. Her openness about her condition almost makes me feel bad, like I’m taking advantage of her innocence. Almost. “As always. I had to milk them twice today already. It won’t be long before they need it again. Do you think you could help me out after dinner?”

  “Sure,” I say, in what I assume is a nonchalant manner. You’re just helping your daughter so she won’t be in pain, I tell myself, trying like hell to believe it.

  “Thanks so much!” she squeals again, leaning over and kissing my cheek. “You know I always love when you help. It always feels so much better and goes so much faster.”

  She straightens and walks over to the cabinet as I take another swig of my beer. Humming happily to herself, Tara pulls out two plates and sets them on the counter. Grabbing the pan of eggs from the stove, she scoops some onto each plate. My stomach rumbles, though it’s not the eggs I’m thinking of eating.

  2.

  Jack

  The last time I heard from Tara’s mom was well over a decade ago. I had come in from working in the field, just like I had done today, except instead of my wife I had found Tara crying on the floor and a note tucked under a half-empty beer can. Sorry, it had said. Good luck. And then a drunken signature scrawled across the bottom.

  I had raised Tara ever since as my own. Because of where we lived, so far from other people, I took extra care to teach her what I felt she should know. I was afraid, living out in the country by myself, and being a man in his early-thirties, that I wasn’t going to raise her right, and I was determined to get her prepared for the big, bad world outside of the farm, though she had never shown any inclination to go out into it, then or now.

  The first years of raising Tara by myself had passed easily enough. Truth be told, Tara’s mother had always been a bigger burden than anything else. With her gone, the house quieted. No more screaming rages. No more violent outbursts. Just me, my 6-year-old stepdaughter, and the wide open skies of the countryside. I had hired a nanny to come out and take care of Tara while I was out busy tending the farm. She had driven out every morning and left every evening until Tara was old enough to be on her own and take over the household duties. She had been barely a teenager when that had happened. Since then, it’d just been the two of us. I was, as she said, her best friend in the whole world. Even so, there were some things we never talked about.

  Sex, for example. I had no clue what Tara knew about it, if anything. I had assumed the nanny had covered it, although I had never asked. I had no experience raising childr
en, much less girls, and just the thought of explaining to Tara all the ins and outs of relationships seemed a daunting proposition. Where did I even begin to explain about sex and boys and all those funny feelings you get in your stomach? All I could remember about it was waking up one day and feeling the overwhelming urge to hump things. I doubted Tara’s experience was the same.

  One thing was for sure: Tara was clueless about her effect on men. A few times I had been forced to hire some men to come out and help me work, and every time she had greeted them at the door, as ever braless, her perky, young tits on full display. She had developed early, her body blooming like the flowers in the fields she so loved (though it was only within the last year that she had begun lactating for seemingly no reason). Each time, the men I had hired had been struck dumb by my beautiful nymph. She had giggled and invited them inside, their eyes following her as she moved. She had not seemed to notice their attentions, or at least had not considered them out of the ordinary. After a few times of having to deal with the anger at watching these men undress my daughter with their eyes, I had never let her interact with them again. Something about the way they looked at her made me all the more protective of her innocence. I didn’t want them to take it away from her.

  Or maybe, as I had told myself a thousand times, I was just saving it for myself.

  ***

  After dinner, Tara and I clean the dishes together, shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Our conversation is light and easy. She’s telling me about all the fantastic things she saw in the woods surrounding the house this afternoon. Though she has the body of a woman in full-bloom, in her heart she’s still just a child.

  “It was the most beautiful butterfly, Pa,” she says, her eyes shining brilliantly. She’s called me Pa since before her mother left; it was her first word. I like the way it sounds when she says it—like she trusts me with all her heart. For a brief moment, my heart breaks. I can’t believe that I’m attracted to her. It feels so wrong. I’m her caregiver, the man she believes in with every fiber of her being. And in bed at night, all I’m doing is thinking about her little naked body writhing beneath mine.

  Take it easy on yourself. You can’t help being a man. And remember, you’re not related.

  I sigh and watch as she scrubs a dish. It’s the same argument I always have with myself, have been having with myself ever since she turned eighteen. I’m not sure what the right answer is, though I suspect I’ll never know until I take my chances and taste her. Even so, I’m hesitant. The last thing I want to do is shatter her trust in me. Because I love her with all my heart. I really do.

  “Okay, Pa,” she says, putting the last of the dishes on the drying rack. “I’m ready. Are you?”

  “Yep,” I say, my heartbeat suddenly doubling. “Ready.”

  I follow her out of the kitchen into the den. We’re headed to our special milking room, the spare bathroom at the back of the house. It’s the room we always use.

  Inside the bathroom, Tara turns to face me. She’s grinning, her hands holding the hem of her shirt. Without missing a beat, she pulls it off over her head and drops it to the side. Her breasts are swollen and heavy, two tiny droplets of fresh cream glistening on her nipples. Her skin is taut and shiny. Unconsciously I lick my lips. I glance up at her to see if she’s noticed.

  She hasn’t. She’s looking down at her breasts, lifting one and then the other, weighing them in her hands.

  “They’re so full,” she says, gently closing her thumbs and forefingers around her nipples. She pinches and milk swells out and runs down her chest. She sighs in relief. “They seem to be filling faster and faster every day. Don’t they look bigger to you?”

  She turns and shows me her chest from the side. She’s so young and perky her tits are like two ski slopes, upturned at the nipple. She’s right, they do look bigger. She hefts them in her hand and squeezes them, no idea how much I’m getting turned on. I cough and turn sideways, surreptitiously adjusting my rockhard cock in my pants.

  Of course she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy examining herself, seeing her breasts like she sees her nose or her ears or her feet: just one more body part.

  “They are definitely bigger.” She looks up at me. “Remember the first time?”

  I smile. I do remember the first time. Right after her 18th birthday. Just over a year ago.

  I’d been sitting in the kitchen, in the same seat where Tara had fed me this afternoon. I had been relaxing, taking a load off my feet after a long day in the fields when Tara, tears in her eyes and her arms crossed protectively over her chest, had found me in the kitchen.

  “Pa…” she had moaned, miserable. I had immediately pushed back my chair and beckoned her over to me, sitting her on my lap and wrapping my arms around her tiny shoulders.

  “What is it, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”

  “I-it’s my chest,” she had sniffled, burying her face in my shoulder. “It hurts so much.”

  “What do you mean it hurts?”

  She had pulled back and looked at me then. She had been wearing an oversized, loose t-shirt, her ample breasts hidden beneath it, though her nipples had been hard against the thin fabric.

  “I don’t know,” she had cried. “My chest just hurts so much. It’s been so tender the last few days. But it’s been getting worse. And when I woke up from my nap this afternoon, it was no longer just sensitive, it was painful. Oh, it hurts so bad!”

  And then, after a bit of coaxing, Tara had slipped her shirt off over her head, and I had seen for the first time her perfect, untouched breasts.

  I remember how she had looked that afternoon almost as if it had happened yesterday and not a year ago. Her blonde hair pulled loosely back, tears staining her cheeks. Her pale skin and thin arms around my neck. Her breasts, swollen with milk, so taut they looked as if they might burst. Her painfully hard nipples, the skin around her areolas veiny and bruised blue. The smell of her—young, fresh, untouched, innocent—so potent in my nostrils.

  We had examined her breasts together, at first just me watching while she cupped herself and explained what it felt like. Then she had begged me to help as she winced in pain. I had gently reached out and touched her, not quite believing what I was doing and feeling wrong about it the entire time. Having to readjust myself in my pants in the split second she looked away. Caressing and squeezing her breasts. Rolling my thumbs over her nipples as she groaned. Closing my fingers around them and pulling on them until the first droplets of milk swelled out and she gasped in relief. And then standing behind her as she bent over the kitchen sink, my arms around her, my hands cupping her breasts, working out the warm, fresh milk, her ass innocently wiggling against my crotch as I soothed her with kind, soft words…

  “Remember how scared I was?” Tara asks, breaking into my reverie. I’m so deep in my reminiscences that for a moment I’ve forgotten my stepdaughter is once again standing in front of me half-naked, her breasts waiting for my hands.

  I laugh, pushing away the memory.

  “You were so scared, darling,” I say. “But you were in so much pain too.”

  “I know,” she replies, her fingers and thumbs rolling her nipples back and forth. We both watch as milk dribbles out. “I’m just glad you were there to help me. Just like you’re here now. It’s such a relief. Are you ready, Pa?”

  Tara moves across the bathroom and plants herself in front of the bathtub. She bends over it and places her hands on the wall, her large breasts dangling below her.

  Drip, drip, drip. Her breasts are so full and ready to be milked they won’t stop leaking even when she’s not touching them. She looks over her shoulder and grins at me. I can’t even begin to describe how sexy she is. Thin waist, blossoming hips, innocent eyes that for a second I can’t help but believe blaze with desire. Her ass in her skin-tight jeans poking out towards me; the steady drip of her milk into the porcelain tub.

  “Ready when you are,” she says quietly, her voice suddenly too big for the small bathr
oom.

  Taking a deep breath and trying as best I can to push my dirty thoughts out of my mind, I position myself behind her and reach around and cup her breasts. My thumbs and forefingers close around her nipples. As I begin to roll them in small circles, milk spritzing out into the tub, she sighs and unwittingly rubs her ass against my crotch.

  3.

  Tara

  His hands feel so good on my breasts. They always do. They are warm to the touch. I feel so safe when he’s holding me like this. I know I am in good hands.

  I close my eyes and listen to my milk hitting the bathtub. I can smell it as it spritzes out of my nipples; the scent is overwhelmingly sweet. Surprisingly, I’ve never tasted it before; I’m not sure why I haven’t. Standing her in the quiet bathroom, no sound save my breathing and my father’s, I begin to crave it. Is it wrong to drink it?

  My father’s body is pressed against mine. Something about his closeness, his touch, creates a strange ache in my body. It’s like this every time he milks me. I’m not sure what it means. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

  Well, that’s not quite true. I’ve felt this same feeling in the pit of my stomach quite a few times. But it is always whenever I’m with my Pa. I feel it sometimes when I catch him looking at me. I feel it whenever we go swimming together down at the creek. I feel it whenever he hugs me and kisses me goodnight. I feel it every time I see him coming back from the fields with his shirt off, his hard body sleek with sweat. I especially feel it now with him so close, his hands on my swollen, bursting breasts.

  I close my eyes and relax into the sensation. Unconsciously, my body begins to sway against his. My lips part slightly and I groan. I can’t help it; the relief feels so good. It’s that same feeling you get when you have to go to the restroom and you’ve been holding it for a long while and then you finally get to go. Only it’s more intense.