Daddy's Little Girl: Bred by My Daddy 3 (erotic taboo breeding erotica) by Francis Ashe Page A

to move
across the country, away from everything I care about, just so she
can bring home another pile of money. We’ve got enough. I do
anyway. I’ve got you.”
    It was corny, but I knew he meant what he
said.
    “We’ll figure something out, I promise. If
nothing else, you can come to town with me. I make enough to afford
a two-bedroom rental. You’ve still got that cash from the
pharmaceutical company lawsuit and the stuff you make and sell on
the side. We’d do fine. Better than fine. I want you to do it. I’m
tired of being apart.” I looked hard into his eyes and squeezed his
hand again.
    “I’m sick of not waking up in the same bed
with the man I love and Davis is sick of not having his dad around
all the time. Well as sick of it as eight-month-old can be. I want
you around and he needs you.”
    He nodded and seemed deep in thought. “Me too
babe, me too. We’ll see what happens. Okay?”
    Standing up on my tip toes, I kissed him on
the chin. “Everything’s fine. I promise.” I whispered.
    “Well, alright. Anyway, remote’s on the
coffee table. I was just getting done in the yard before it gets
too hot to breathe out there. I’ll be back in a few. You good?”
    “Yeah. Thanks. I really mean it – you’re
absolutely the best.”
    He smiled mocked a hat-tipping motion, and
went on his way.
     
    ***
     
    Peter, Peter. Oh, Peter. That’s what
he made me call him when we were out in the world. Made sense – I
mean, for all our quirks, I can understand why he would prefer I
not call him “daddy”, even though he was my step-dad.
    I lay back, flicked on the local
news-at-noon, and half-heartedly rocked the baby for a moment
before he started making his hungry sounds.
    Although I could have done without the little
bundle’s gnawing, the feeling of his warmth pressed against my
chest, and his weight resting on my belly was just wonderful.
Davis’s little suckles, the way my milk spilled across his lips and
how he always managed to latch on to the same bruised place on my
breast gave me a strange feeling of bliss. No matter how much it
hurt, or how often he pinched the same part, there was just some
kind of magic about this little life form, this tiny jumble of me
and my daddy that made it so everything was alright.
    I absent mindedly stroked the back of Davis’s
head as he sucked. For some reason, I became utterly transfixed
with the knot on the TV weatherman’s tacky, splotch-patterned
necktie. Looks like a mixture of Jackson Pollock and, I donno,
rotten tomatoes . A snort of laughter came out of me and
surprised my baby, making him spit, which in turn, got me laughing
even harder.
    As soon as he calmed down enough to eat
again, and I quit chortling at Sam Skipton’s necktie, the cool
rhythm of suckling and swallowing made the lights in the living
room seem a bit dimmer. A sort of hypnosis. Those were the most
relaxing moments of my life – safe in my daddy’s house, waiting for
what promised to be an enjoyable Labor Day weekend hanging out by
the pool, and waiting for my gorgeous, funny, tiny man to finish
his lunch.
    The world could not, I thought, get much more
perfect.
    Laying there with little Davis, I decided
sink into the giant, over-stuffed couch and rest my eyes while he
ate. As soon as my head hit the cushions, my vision was blocked by
a huge stack of laundry.
    Oh shit. I almost forgot about this pile of
pants. Guess I better get up and deal with that before my eyes
start to get heavy and...
    “Are my little girl’s tits sore from all that
milk?” As I accidentally drifted off, the baby at my breast was
replaced in my mind by my daddy, Peter. He stroked my hair out of
my face and let one of his hands go to on my belly directly
underneath my bare tits.
    His lips brushed against mine in a sweet,
safe kiss and then traced my jawline to just behind my ear where he
nibbled softly.
    Peter’s hair was thick and soft tangled
around my fingers. He kissed down my neck, a trail of goose