His come leaking down my thighs

Chapter 7

The jute band rasped against the stone shelf as Bruno pulled it tight around my left wrist, the coarse fibers biting into my skin, and I felt the cool dark of the corner press against my back. He had found me in the shadows behind the tall rack, where the camera feed died in a dead zone of black, and I had knelt beside him without a word, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low, his fingers working the jute around my right wrist now, cinching it to the same shelf. “What you saw that summer.”

I felt the rough warmth of his palm against my cheek, and I turned my face into it, breathing in the salt and yeast of his skin. “The stairwell,” I whispered. “Last summer. You were washing wheels in a soaked shirt, and your arms flexed with the brush, and I hid on the stairs and squeezed my thighs until I came dry.”

He went still. The jute creaked as I strained against it, testing the bind, and I felt the fibers dig deeper into my wrists.

“That was before any of this,” he said, his voice rough, a final brake. “You were twenty-one. I was your mother’s husband.”

“I know,” I said, and I pressed my chest forward, my n****e brushing his lips through my shirt. “But I’ve been yours since then, Daddy. I just never said it out loud.”

His breath caught. I felt the heat of his mouth through the thin cotton, his tongue finding my n****e, and I felt it bead hard under his touch. The jute bit into my wrists as I arched into him, and I heard my own breathy giggle of fear echo off the stone.

“Say it again,” he said, his voice a growl against my breast.

“I’m yours,” I said. “I’ve always been yours.”

He pulled my shirt up, exposing my breasts to the cool cave air, and I felt the goosebumps rise along my skin. He pressed my t**s together with both palms, the pressure building in my milk ducts, and I felt a sharp tingle shoot through my engorged n*****s.

“Your body knows,” he said, his thumb circling my n****e. “It’s been waiting for me to claim it.”

He reached for a paper tag from the shelf, the kind he used for aging wheels, and wrote something on it with his tasting pencil. He slipped it between my breasts, the rough paper scratching my skin.

“Work log,” he said. “Date tag for the reserve batch. You’re my reserve now, girl.”

I felt the jute creak as I strained against it, and I heard his belt unbuckle. The smell of jute and must filled my nose, mixed with his sweat, and I felt my cunt clench around nothing.

“Please, Daddy,” I whispered. “I need you inside me.”

He pushed my thighs apart and drove his c**k into my cunt in one thick stroke, the blunt head pressing deep, and I felt the ring of muscle stretch around him. The jute bit into my wrists as I arched into him, and I felt the ridge of his c**k drag over the rough spot inside me.

“You’re so tight,” he said, his voice rough. “Your cunt is gripping me like it remembers the stairwell.”

I felt the heat spread from my belly to my thighs, and I heard the wet squelch of his c**k sliding in and out of me. “Yes, Daddy. It remembers. It’s yours.”

He drove into me slow and deep, each stroke hitting my cervix, and I felt the pressure build in my belly. The jute creaked as I strained, and I heard his guttural groan echo off the stone.

“Look at you,” he said, his thumb finding my c**t. “Bound to my shelf, taking my c**k. Your body knows exactly what it is.”

“I’m yours,” I sobbed. “Fill me, Daddy. Please.”

He drove in deep and held, his c**k pulsing inside me, and I felt the hot splash of his come flooding my cunt. The warmth spread through my inner walls, thick and slick, and I felt my own orgasm crash over me, my walls milking him, my toes curling, my vision blurring.

He pulled out, his seed leaking down my thighs, warm against the cool air. I felt the ache in my wrists, the jute marks already forming, and I heard the wet trickle of his come running down my leg.

Then I heard it. Boots on the cellar stair.

Lena’s voice floated down, casual and bright. “Need me to take the tasting counter?”

Bruno’s hand clamped over my mouth, and I felt his c**k harden again against my thigh. He grabbed the jute tag from between my breasts and pressed it to my lips, the salt of his sweat and the rough paper filling my mouth.

“No,” he called up, his voice calm. “I’m doing a core check.”

I felt my skin’s sensitivity double, every nerve alive, and I felt my cunt clench around nothing. The fear made everything sharper—the jute biting my wrists, the pressure of his hand on my mouth, the wet trickle of his come running down my thigh.

Her boots crossed the tasting room above us, each step a blade at my throat. I felt the urge to clamp my thighs shut fighting the need to stay still, and I felt my cunt get wetter with every second.

“Airing the rinds?” she called down.

“Something like that,” Bruno said, and I felt his c**k press between my breasts, the head slick with my arousal and his come.

He pushed my t**s together around his shaft, the pressure building in my milk ducts, and I felt a sharp tingle shoot through my n*****s. He thrust between them, the wet work of his c**k sliding against my skin, and I felt the heat of him against my chest.

Her boots stopped at the top of the stairs. I heard her sniff, then pause.

“Door’s ajar,” she said. “Smells sweet down there.”

Bruno’s hand tightened over my mouth, and I felt his c**k pulse between my breasts. He thrust faster, the rhythm urgent, and I felt a bead of milk form on my n****e—a tiny white droplet, impossible to unsee.

“Just the reserve batch,” he called up. “Ammonia bloom.”

She paused a beat too long. Then her boots retreated, and I heard the tasting room door click shut.

Bruno’s hand left my mouth. He thrust harder between my breasts, the pressure building, and I felt the milk droplet roll down my n****e, warm against my skin.

“Your body is finally aging the way I planned,” he said, his voice rough. “Look at you. Milk on your n****e. Bound to my shelf.”

He drove his c**k between my t**s one last time and came with a guttural groan, hot come painting my chest in thick stripes. I felt the warmth spread across my skin, cooling against the cave air, and I heard the wet sound of his seed dripping onto the stone floor.

He leaned down and licked the milk droplet off my n****e, then pressed his mouth to mine. I tasted the sweet milk and the salt of his come on my tongue.

“You made me this way,” I whispered, the words slipping out. “You made me yours.”

He untied the jute, and I felt the marks on my wrists, raw and red. He slipped the date tag from between my breasts and tucked it into his pocket.

“Work log,” he said. “You’re my reserve batch now. Forever.”

I looked down at my chest, his come cooling on my skin, the milk droplet still beading on my n****e. The evidence was impossible to hide—the jute marks on my wrists, the milk on my shirt, his seed drying on my chest.

I heard Lena’s voice from the tasting room, too casual. “Bruno, why was the cellar door open?”

“Airing the rinds,” he called back, and I heard her too-long pause before she walked away.

I felt the milk bead on my n****e again, a permanent change in my body, and I knew the truth. The girl in the stairwell and the woman on the shelf were the same. I had always been his. And now my body was proving it.