#dad!pat

*****

When your breasts start preparing for your milk to come in, Pat does whatever he can to help you. It’s new for you, and strange, and none of the articles or old wives’ tales really prepared you for it.

So Pat borrows books from the library, he asks around for advice from Doc, from Donnie, he even uses your laptop to do some research before work. He educates himself about all the hormones flooding your blood and what they’re doing to you, what he can do to help you get some relief.

He makes sure your clothes and pyjamas are comfy, makes sure he’s always got ice packs in the freezer, and runs you warm showers when the cold does nothing. He helps you in and out when you can’t do it yourself, and he sets you up in bed with pillows around you every single night you need them. Even better, he backs off when you don’t need his help, giving you space. He’s learning, discovering how to give you whatever you need as your belly begins to swell with his baby, with the child you’ll raise together.

One day he asks you how you’re feeling. But he’s really, really not prepared for the answer. “Oh, baby I,” you take a big sigh, “just, so sore, and my boobs I, honestly, honey, they feel so heavy and full and achy. Just achy all over. Can,” you huff another sigh, “can you help me with my bra, Pat?”

He’s so torn, in that half-second before he responds with an “of course, honey,”, so torn because he heard you say you’re sore and achy but he also heard you say you’re heavy and full and he, he just.

He can’t put it into words, what he thinks it is. It’s too… it’s wrong of him.

He settles behind you, “do you want this top off too honey?” he asks, rubbing small circles into your hips with his thumbs.

You close your eyes, just gently. “Yeah, please, it’s too hot in here.”

That makes Pat frown. You were so close to having enough saved to get your air conditioning system upgraded, and he wished he could just snap his fingers and make it the perfect temperature for you right this second.

He lifts your singlet top over your head and his hands unclasp your bra. He slides it off your shoulders and arms gently, he knows how sensitive your breasts can get. His fingers trail down the sides of your arms to your wrists, then back up, over your shoulders, and down your back.

It’s on the tip of his tongue, he’s just about to say it, just about to ask-

“Oh,” you sigh, your shoulders dropping, grateful and relieved, the pressure in your breasts abating for the moment, “thanks, baby.” You turn to face him, and you think for half a second you see Pat’s eyes glance down at your chest and go wide. But the look on his face is gone as quickly as it came. “I’m gonna go take a nap,” you say, planting a kiss to his cheek and stalking off towards your bedroom, the coolest room in the house.

“Ok, honey,” Pat says, softly, but he’s making tight tight tight fists with his hands, his knuckles turning white. You don’t need this from him, he knows, and he’s trying so hard. “Call out if you need me,” he says, and looks down his long torso at his tenting jeans. He brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and sighs.

*****

Bras are becoming more and more uncomfortable, “not that they were ever a dream to begin with,” you joke, and Paterson chuckles.

You’re sitting on the couch together. Pat is sitting up reading, and you’re scrolling through your phone, laying down with your calves resting on his thick thighs. “Oh!” you start, and Pat looks over at you, brows quirked in curiosity. “That specialty bra place in town has a new maternity range, 20% off too. Should we go?”

Pat sets his book down on the arm of the couch, his thumb marking the page, while his other thumb traces idle circles around one of your ankles. “Do you want to go, honey?” are the words that leave his mouth, but what he’s thinking is a whole other story:

Oh God, I can’t, I can’t stand there while you’re changing, half naked in those tiny little rooms, big beautiful tits hanging out, getting full of, filling up with, no, please, please don’t make m-

“Yeah I would, actually,” you say, adjusting your breast that had started to ache, missing how Pat’s eyes flicked to your hand, the jiggle of your flesh, “I need new bras anyway,” you say as you slide your legs off his thighs, hoist yourself up to sitting, then standing, “I keep falling out of the ones I have, it’s ridiculous!” you chuckle as you walk away, and Pat tenses his thighs together, bites his bottom lip, and sighs heavily through his nose.

*****

They’re not even a month old, your new bras, and already you’re spilling out of the top, the sides. As soon as you get home you’re wrapping your hands around your back, unclipping the hook-and-eye and shucking your bra off, no matter where you are in the house.

Pat keeps finding your bras in random places around the house. The couch, hanging over the dining chairs or the top of the shower screen, on your bedroom floor. The only place he hasn’t seen one of your discarded bras is in the second bedroom, which you’re both turning into a nursery. He likes that you’re both keeping that space relatively clean, neat and tidy while you get it ready for your baby.

It’s another hot one, night time this time, when he finds one of your bras. This one, it’s not like the others he’s collected and tossed into the laundry basket. He’d almost say this one is… special?

On this bra, one the inside of each of the cups, he spies tiny little wet spots.

It takes him a second, just one second, to register what he’s looking at.

But then, he’s filling up, he’s swelling up, getting long and thick in his jeans. His eyes flick between the little patches, and he licks his lips, swallows a thick gulp. He wants, he thinks he might need, he lifts it closer, bringing your bra slowly up to his face, he extends his neck and leans down, his tongue almost pokes out over his bottom lip-

“Oh, hey baby,” your voice rings out from behind, startling him.

His gasp is barely audible as he whips around to face you, sees you standing in the doorway fresh from the steamy hot shower he ran for you, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

“Hhhhi honey,” he sighs it out, dropping his hands and your bra down to his belt, covering up his need, his want. He settles his voice to ask you, “Was the water hot enough?”

“Oh, yeah, y’know, fine. I'm still a bit tender, and I’m sweating now, so,” you shrug, gesturing to your chest. “That one,” you tilt your head towards your bra in his hands, “ruined, I think.”

“Oh,” Pat looks down at your soiled bra clutched in his hands, and makes a sound, considering, “no, I think I read something,” he flicks his eyes back up to yours, “it’ll wash out if we wash it soon, it won’t stain.”

Something about the way he says it. The way he’s standing. You tilt your head to the side. You try him out. “I’m sore, baby,” you say, and you drop your towel and walk over to him.

You see it now. He’s trying so hard to stay calm, stay cool, stay present and focused on you. But it’s in the tiny little expressions, the half-seconds where he raises and lowers his eyebrows, widens his eyes, puffs out his lips. It’s in his eyes, too, he can’t keep them from burning for you.

“What can I do, honey?” he asks, one hand trailing up and down your upper arm, gazing into your eyes, training them to stare into your orbs so he doesn’t look down at your luscious, full chest and your plush, flushed nipples.

“Can you just, can you hold me, just with your hands? They’re so heavy, baby,” you gesture to your breasts again, “and I’m so tired.”

“Yeah, honey, sure. Of course,” he nods a little, just ever so slightly, tiny little tips of his head. He’s hoping, praying that you can’t see any of the trembling he feels in his body.

You sit on the edge of the bed, and spread your knees, planting your hands palm down on the top of the mattress. It arches your back and pushes your chest out, emphasising your belly, and Pat fights to stifle a groan with a cough.

He kneels between your legs, and with the very tips of his fingers, trails up the top of your feet, over your ankles, up the sides of your legs, your thighs, over the swell of your torso. He pauses, he does not, at all, want to hurt you, so he says “is this pressure alright, honey?”

“Mm, fine, Pat,” you almost whisper, and then feel as he takes the soft, hot tips of his fingers up and around the flesh of your breasts, making a circle that starts and ends at the underside of your full breast.

Paterson’s big, soft, warm hands gently, feather-light, cup your breasts around the outer side, towards your arms, fitting all he can get of them into his palm. With almost no pressure at all, the ghost of a touch, he tenderly lifts, just enough, just to take the pressure off your neck and shoulders and back.

You sigh, closing your eyes and tipping your head back just a tiny bit as relief floods through your fatigued muscles, and suddenly, without even really registering what it is, you feel a warm, wet trickle run down the flesh of your left breast.

For one, blissful moment, it feels almost soothing, almost... and then.

Then it clicks what that is, and you flip. Your head snaps back and your eyes go wide and you gasp, “shit!”

Paterson’s eyes are wide, his mouth is hanging open, he can’t close it and he can’t tear his eyes away. He’s just caressed your breasts with all the gentle care and tenderness he can muster and you, you rolled your head back and you sighed and you leaked, he saw it, he watched it as a thin little stream leaked right from the centre of your nipple, down over your breast, onto his hand and now, it was gliding down towards his wrist. He was frozen in place, his pulse thudding in his cock, which he was so thankful you couldn’t see.

“Oh, Pat baby I’m so sorry,” you try to grasp the sheet, try to pull it up and wipe him off and try to take his hands away from your breasts but he’s not budging.

“No, honey, it’s ok, (Y/N), it’s ok, honey, just, breathe for me, ok?” He sees you getting embarrassed, getting frantic, and if you kept moving your sore breasts might hurt more and he was definitely not going to let go and just drop them, let them bounce, right in his face, so close to his mouth-

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Pat, oh God,” you’re clutching the sheets and your eyes are wide, mortified.

Paterson makes a quick decision, the decision that’s best for you, and what you need from him right now. Not now. Not yet. Later.

“It’s ok, honey, it’s natural, I’ve read about it,” he looks up at you with the most earnest eyes, imploring you to see reason, see the natural beauty in this, about you, like he does. “This happens, honey. Really, it does, I mean it.”

Gazing into his face, you feel yourself relax. You let out a long breath.

“I’m going to let go now, ok?” he asks, his eyes searching between yours. You nod, and he gently lowers your breasts down to where they rest naturally, and eases his palms off you.

“I’m tired, baby,” you say, too many emotions coursing through you. Your whole being was fatigued, mind and muscles, and you were all at once embarrassed, ashamed, and a little bit, a tiny bit, something you didn’t want to admit. Something you felt with the way Pat touched you, the way it let you, almost, let down milk? Was that what just happened?

Pat grabs a tissue and dabs at your breast and at his hand. He helps you settle back into bed, gets you comfy with all your pillows. He strokes your silky soft hair, chatting idle sleepy nonsense with you, and presses a kiss to your temple as you fall asleep. The last thing you hear is Pat whispering, “goodnight, angel, you’re beautiful,” and you’re out.

Paterson takes himself to the bathroom.

He stares at himself in the mirror.

He tells himself to get it together. Tells himself he can’t keep doing this. Not to you, and not to himself, either.

But in the back of his mind, way back, in a deep and dark place, he can’t deny what you’re doing to him. Your breasts, the very beginnings of your milk.

He turns on the water. He makes it hot, steam rising in the air.

He gets in, gets himself all wet and slippery and soaped up.

And he cums so hard he almost blacks out.

*****

When you bring home the breast pump from the baby supplies store and you watch a couple instructional videos together, Paterson thinks today is the day he will perish from this planet and cease to exist.

You’re in the kitchen, around the dining table, laptop open with seven different tabs and YouTube clips.

So many questions run through his mind, each one filthier than the last, and too shameful to admit out loud: Is it gonna do that to you too? Will it p-pull on your nipples like that? Will your milk just spurt out like, like- Can he watch? Can he have some?

He wished the answer to all of them was yes. He also wished it was no. He was meant to be here to support you, to help you, to do whatever he is capable of doing to make this burden easier on you. Not that you would call it that, he knows. But it takes a toll on your body, your mind, he sees it, and he wants to fix it, wants to make it better.

“Let’s try it out, yeah baby?” You ask casually, as if you were suggesting going for a walk. It’s far too casual, for how he’s feeling right now, swirling with wanting to be your provider, your protector, and needing to suck on your tits while he strokes his cock as your fingers card through his hair.

He takes a big gulp and says, “sure thing, honey.” Paterson turns his back to you to set up the machine, connecting the tubes and making sure everything was secured properly and safely. He didn’t want this to be something you dealt with alone.

He turns back around and has to clutch the side of the table to keep himself standing.

In the low light from the other night, he didn’t really see, didn’t really get a good enough look at you. He felt you, definitely, the heft of your breasts, their weight in his palm, heavier and fuller than usual. But what he saw now…

You’ve stripped off your top, which was busting open anyway. You’ve taken off your bra, and tossed it to the side as well. All he sees, all he has eyes for, are your plush, gorgeous breasts.

Seeing them so big, huge and swollen, almost engorged with milk, looking so plump and ripe. And your nipples, they’re almost puffy, your areola stretched bigger and darker in colour than before, your hard nubs protruding out, looking stiff, and bigger, almost like little rosebuds.

He clenches his jaw, hard, so hard he hears the grit and grind of his teeth mashing against each other. He feels hot, feels sweat bead at his hairline, feels his palms trembling.

If he’s honest, he’s jerked off every single day since you oozed onto his hand, imagining all the ways he might get to make you do that again, and every time, every single time, spilling into his fist the moment he thinks about tasting your sweet milk on his tongue and getting to swallow it down.

And now, this, you, half-naked in the dining chair with heavy breasts and big swollen nipples. He hand just isn’t enough. He can’t get over his want and his need for you, you with your swelling belly and your full, milky tits…

“Baby can you get me some of that coconut oil I like?” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts again. He’s been getting too lost in his own world lately. You’ve been snapping him out of his fantasies more often than not. “I think it’s in the vanity in the bathroom.”

He doesn’t realise he’s doing it, but as he nods and walks away, stiffly and awkwardly as you fiddle with the pump settings, reading through the manual, distracted, he’s blinking. Quite a bit actually.

Blinking back hot, wet tears of frustration. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be wanting this. But it pulls at him, drags him under, makes him want to beg you for it.

He’s so hard for you he could cry.

*****

It’s Saturday morning, and you have no plans. Not a single engagement or thing to do of any kind. You’re looking at two whole days filled with nothing but your handsome husband, and you couldn’t be happier.

Except.

You could. You could be happier.

Time’s getting on and it’s becoming more and more apparent that baby’s getting bigger, and bigger, and almost the biggest they’ll get. Not only do you have a ridiculous amount of bras you don’t fit into anymore, but all your dresses and tops are so tight, too tight, especially in the bust.

What’s more, something has been nagging you about Pat. Something is different with him, off with him. He’s that way he gets when he’s thinking too much about something, getting too stuck in his own head. Maybe, over the weekend, you’d help him relax and giving him the space and time and patience to unpack it with you.

Meanwhile, Paterson’s been watching you. He notices every outfit you wear, how it sits on you, how it hugs you, flatters you. He notices when it’s too small, when your breasts are bursting the seams. He notices the swell of his baby in your belly and he feels a lick of something up his spine. When he sets eyes on you, you make his mouth water.

For now, you’re fresh out of the shower, and you’re huffing, hands on hips, looking at your clothes through your open wardrobe doors, irritated.

Although you’re only going to be at home, you’ve nothing to wear. You’ve tried on every bra you own, and not a single one is working for or with you today. Your breasts feel so full and heavy and you’re just, honestly, so over it. You really want this to be a nice weekend, and be present for Pat and whatever it is he needs from you, but honestly? Fuck it.

You pull on your favourite strappy tank top and your most comfy, slouchy pyjama shorts, foregoing any and all underwear, and walk out into the living room.

Pat looks up from his book when he hears you coming. He sees you, looks back down at his book, does a double take and stifles a gasp. God above, look at you, he thinks, your big belly with his baby inside and your luscious, swollen tits.

Oh no. Oh no oh no not again. His cock is filling up thick and hard just from looking at you, today. He wonders, inwardly, how truly fucked he really is, how deep a hole he’s dug for himself.

You ease yourself down next to him on the couch and sigh, happy to not be on your feet anymore. But your breasts are aching, so you reach up and massage them. Both your hands working gently over the soft, yielding flesh of your tender breasts.

Pat shifts in his seat, his mouth gone dry. He’s getting uncomfortably hard. He wonders if you’d object to him kneeling at your feet and jerking his cock while you rubbed your sore breasts. He wonders if he should just say it, ask you for it, beg and plead with you for it on his knees right now. He’s let this go too far.

But all thought leaves him when he hears you.

“Oh, shit!” You tsk, having leaked onto another top, little wet patches forming as your milk seeps through the material. You should know by now, what happens when you rub your breasts. It happens in the shower all the time. “Ugh, not again, damn it!” you curse.

In all honesty, the sight has Paterson licking his lips. He wants, needs, just a small, tiny taste.

This is it. It had to be. He can’t take it anymore. He gets ready, about to ask you, about to lay it all on the line for you: Would you let him lick at your leaking tits? Would you let him suck some of your sweet milk into his mouth? Would you let him palm himself while he did it?

He feels his cock pulse and drool onto his trunks and he opens his mouth to finally let it all out but all that he says is a meek little “Do you n-need to p-pump, honey?”

You let out a low curse under your breath. “I guess I do now,” you go to get up off the couch but, you’re at the point where you need help. Pat grabs one of your arms and helps get you to your feet.

He follows you into the kitchen and puts the coffee on. Paterson tries to make it look like he’s not watching you lift up your top and get your tits out at the dining table and place the pump onto your left breast.

He pretends like he’s not eyeing the stretching and pulling and releasing of your nipple as the pump works it. He acts like he’s not seeing you grope and grip and press into the flesh of your breast to help release the fullness, the weight, of the milk in your breast.

And then, he sees it before you feel it.

“Oh, honey, you’re…” he trails off, taking quick strides to you. He gently pries your legs apart and kneels onto the floor between your legs. He rests one arm on your thigh and the other cups your right breast, with a thin little stream of just off-white tricking down.

“Oh Jesus, Pat, here,” you fret, trying to grab a paper towel, a tea towel, an anything from the kitchen table. Great, you think to yourself, one leaks while the other pumps, that’s just perfect.

“Honey no please.”

Paterson’s words tumble out of his mouth, and it’s as if time stops. Both of you let it hang in the air, almost ringing, echoing in the room.

You’re gazing into his eyes, questioning, wondering, letting the pieces into place in your mind, connecting all the many many dots he’s left for you.

Pat is staring back, a tortured mix of hope and desperate pleading shining through his brown eyes. His eyebrows are pulled up in the middle, just slightly, and his pink lips are parted just so.

You feel that same warm wetness seep from your nipple and you, with your heart pounding in your chest, do what you need to do for him. You let him say what he needs to say, like always. “What do you need, Pat?”

Pat shifts on his knees, getting closer to you. “I’ve been, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I need this, but I need yo-your breasts. I don’t know…” his eyes flick between yours, his hand accidentally squeezing your breast so that more leaks from you, and he groans, a deep and needy thing pulled right from his chest, but he cuts it off quickly and he says, “I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry.”

“Pat, shh, just,” you look between the pump and his hand and his face and you decide to just go for it, let him have it, “I’m leaking everywhere baby just, do what you need to do, do what you want to do, ok?”

Your heartbeat pulses once, twice, then he pounces on you, licking up the trail of milk that streamed from your gorgeously swollen nipple.

It makes you gasp, shocked by the surprise and the eroticism of it all. Here you were, being just so irritated, so fed up, a few minutes ago, and all along your big tall kinky fucker of a husband wanted to, he wanted to-

“Uhhghff-fuuck honey you,” he takes another long swipe of his tongue, “you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to,” he does it again, and moans little “mmm, mmmm”s this time, and then says, “drink your fucking milk, honey,”

You stutter at him, at a loss for words as pleasure, almost unbidden, sparks through you. “You-you-wanted to-?”

“Oh, God,” he moans, cupping the underside of your breast in one hand, “let me suck your leaky tits, baby, please, please, let me taste it,” he drags his tongue up your breast, over the flesh, your areola, your nipple, before pulling off and murmuring, “let me taste how sweet you are, let me lick all over your big full tits, please, honey.”

His mouth is hovering over your nipple, breathing on it and electrifying your nerves. You nod, biting your lip, and Paterson’s eyes go wild. He lurches forward and sucks your nipple into his mouth, latching his lips around your areola and he sucks-sucks-sucks, as if he’s got an iceblock in his mouth and he’s trying to suck all the slightly melted sugar water from it.

You feel the seeping liquid warmth flow through your nipple into Pat’s mouth and it makes you moan, high and needy as Pat sucks and the pump works and it’s too much, very very soon you’ll be overloading.

Paterson groans all over your nipple when he hears you. He pulls off for a half a moment, mutters “so sweet, honey,” and then latches right back on to you again. The hand on your thigh makes for his belt buckle, rapidly tries to unbuckle it. It’s hurting him, how big and hard his dick is now, pushing up too tight against his jeans. He needed some friction on it, he needed to touch his cock, stroke it, jerk it, now.

You see him adjusting himself, trying to get his jeans undone, and you take the moment to gently back away from Pat, hearing him release the suction of his lips on your breast with a wet pop, and you turn off the pump, removing the flange and setting the whole apparatus of tubes and bottles onto the table out of your way.

You turn back to face him and Pat looks absolutely to die for. He’s still kneeling between your legs, one of his most favourite things to do, but his jeans are undone and his thick cock, so red and swollen and needy, is sitting up proudly, resting against his belly. But on his lips, his full and plush and rose petal pink lips, he’s been too greedy, too eager, and forgotten to swallow it all down. On his bottom lip a very thin layer, a little sheen, of your breastmilk is there untouched, and it almost pools in the centre of his lip, almost dribbling down onto his chin.

The sight of him, the knowledge of what he’s just done, what you’ve let him do. You feel a throbbing deep in your core, and it makes you gasp his name.

It’s all he needs.

Pat caresses your breast with his tongue, licking and lapping and laving and flick his tongue over your nipple, before closing his mouth around your areola in a perfect little ‘o’ and sucking, pulling, sucking your sweet milk right down his throat. The grunts and groans coming from him are made of sin itself. You look down and the way his hair moves with every movement of his head, the way his eyelashes fan out over his cheeks, he’s so beautiful, he’s gorgeous, he’s so fucking hot and then he flicks his eyes up and they meet yours and you’re moaning again, lost and light and limbless in his brown orbs.

He moans onto your skin and you quiet your breaths to hear the sound, that slappy sloppy sound of his fist hitting the flesh at the base of his cock as he pumps his length in his palm. He curls his back a little so you can look down and get a better view of his thick fingers wrapped tight around his immensely swollen cock, solid and thick and hot and heavy.

Pleasure and pressure is building within you and you need him, more, something, anything between your legs.

“P-Pat, Pat, please, baby, more for me, hm?” Is all you can gasp out between pants.

Paterson gets a cheeky, wicked glint in his eyes. He relaxes his mouth and places small little kisses to your areola, to the surrounding flesh, as he takes one of your hands in each of his and places your hands to the sides of your breasts. Then, he pushes them together, so you’re holding your tits together for him as close as they can possibly get.

He moans, out loud, at the sight.

He snakes his hand down your body, over your belly, down to your inner thighs. He inches one hand closer to your core, and asks so sweetly, “can I go in here, honey?”

“Yes Pat fuck,” you’re breathless.

“Deep in your pussy, with my fingers?”

“Yes baby, mmhm,” you’re nodding your head as well now.

He helps you shift and manoeuvre your pj shorts off. Then he brings one hand to your core, turns his hand palm up and points his middle and index fingers, letting them hover just over your centre. From his knees, he reaches back up to your breasts, letting his breath fan over flesh. With the way he’s got you holding your tits together, he can almost fit his big mouth over both of your nipples at the same time.

He says one last thing, before he works you over again. One last thing before you’re losing your mind from the intense physical sensations your husband was wreaking on your body.

“Mmmghh gimme your milky tits, honey,” Paterson says, in a half-moan, half-murmur, as he sinks his two fingers in to you and sucks and laves at your nipples again. He’s almost eating your breasts, slobbering and salivating all over your nipples as more milk leaks out of you and onto your skin, onto his lips, onto his tongue. He’s sucking and slurping at your breasts like his life depends on it, drinking down your delicious milk and swallowing every drop.

You’re moaning and keening, shrill and wild on the dining chair, bucking your hips onto his fingers.

With you holding your breasts together for him to suck on freely, one of his hands pumping two fingers into your impossibly tight and slicked up pussy, and his other hand fisting his throbbing cock, Pat feels completely giddy, feels dumb, stupid, wild. His mind is whirring, sending signals to every nerve in his body about how good this feels, how sexy you are, how tasty and sweet the milk seeping from your full, heavy tits is on his tongue.

He’s read about something, he doesn’t know if it’s real, but he’s read about things that can happen to pregnant women when they orgasm.

He’s begging every god he knows that it happens to you.

He changes the angle and the thrust of his fingers just slightly, so that he can press the pads of his fingers onto that very super special spot inside you while his thumb can rub tight little circles into your clit.

You moan, loud and completely gone, whimpering and groaning at the bliss building inside you. You know he’s going to make you cum, almost any second now.

Your sounds send a shockwave through Pat, who bucks his hips into his fist and is fighting everything in his body telling him to cum, to blow it, to shoot his load all over your tiled kitchen floor. A deep, rumbling, guttural groan rips through him and he’s panting and grunting over your big swollen nipples as his hand jerks the full length of his thick flushed cock.

You try to warn him, moaning his name, “Pat! Pat! I’m, you’re gonna make me, Pat!”

He knows what you’re saying, he knows what you need so he presses harder, thumbs faster, licking and flicking his tongue over your nipples to get you to crumble.

And it all happens so fast.

When you do break, when you cum all over his fingers, you yell and scream and see stars. Because it’s not only his fingers, but his face too. Pat’s fucking ecstatic when you cum, when you break for him, your pussy walls clamp and clench his fingers and your nipples spray milk onto his face and into his open fucking mouth and make a mess of him, and a second later, right after his brain catches up with his eyes, he hits his peak and fucks his hand on wobbly knees as he jerks his cum onto the kitchen tiles, moaning and groaning and grunting.

Pat, he can almost cry happy tears, because you do it, like he hoped, you leak from your milky tits when you cum and he’s weak, he’s lightheaded, he slumps down to rest his head on your thighs, slips his fingers out of you and lets his softening cock hang freely.

After a few moments, Pat tries to talk. “Can we,” he pants, “can we do that, again, but when I’m,” he takes a deep breath, “inside you?”

You’re trying to get your bearings, your heartbeat still thudding in your ears and your pussy still pulsing. “What was that baby?”

Paterson takes a shuddering breath, “next time, I want to,” he leans up, and pushes your hair back over your shoulder, speaking to your earlobe, dropping his voice low and letting his hot breath fan over your neck and ear, “I want to suck your milky tits into my mouth and taste you, taste your sweetness again, while I feel your pussy squeeze my cock. Can we do that, honey?”

You smile and plant a kiss to his forehead, stroking your fingers along his scalp. “Sure, kinky man, we can do that baby.”