In this day and age, having an adult child living with me was not something unforeseeable. That it would turn out the way it did was…less foreseeable, but no less pleasurable.
When I was 23 and my wife was 19, we had our daughter Legiea. She was our only child, despite trying for more, so we doted on her. Perhaps we doted too much, because Lige (“Lee-zh”) grew up strong-willed, impetuous, demanding, and uncompromising. Fortunately for us, and her teachers, she was balanced by a natural generosity of spirit and a desire to work hard to achieve and be independent.
She went to a decent university, majored in art, and went on to graduate school for museum management and art preservation. While she wanted to simply paint and make an artist name for herself, I encouraged her to get some degree that would also pay for her food and living while she worked on a name. So, taking talent and degree in hand, graduating with an MA at 22, she went to our state capital to seek her artistic fortune, such as it was.
As I found out later, she fell hard for a man some years older than her, who was entrenched in the art scene at the capital. He had been to NY, she recognized his name, and he claimed to fall for her just as much as she for him. While she was no virgin and nobody’s fool, her passion and strong-will lead her to believe him when he said he was separated from his wife, and ready for a new relationship. In the end, however, after a couple years, she left the relationship, as he wasn’t prepared to leave his socialite yet, and wasn’t at all emotionally available in the depth Lige sought.
After that, Lige decided she wanted to move home for a short time. We were still near enough to the capital that she could paint and attend showings, but she wanted some time to think and sort. And, as she confided in me, she was pregnant with her first, didn’t want to abort (as had been demanded by the former paramour), and wanted some distance. Her mother and I had separated not long after she went away to college – having focused on her so much as she grew up, we found a chasm when she left, and drifted.
So, I had a small home not far from her mother – we remained better friends than partners, and Lige bounced back and forth between our places as she expanded. Her mother, having kept our marital home, had space, and I helped them both build out a nursery for the baby, exercising muscles I hadn’t even thought about in years. Lige spent her days partially covered in paint, and partially exploring a town that she hadn’t really considered for some time. She told me tales of running into old friends, of the occasional interested man she had gotten to know over coffee, and in short, stepping back from her busy city life.
During the time she was visiting, she was very careful to ask if I had female friends over before she arrived to visit or stay – extremely respectful of my space and privacy. And, truth be told, while I was dating a bit here and there, I stayed busy myself, and so I tended to have more shallow lovers and friends that deep, abiding, relationships. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever marry again, but being in my late 40s, I wasn’t kidding myself about the potential for relationships that would be interesting and available in my smallish town.
I suppose, looking back, having her there was a bit like reliving my experience with her mother when she was pregnant with Lige. She had the false labor pains, the waddling experience, the stretching – I was there to help her in the same ways her mother had trained me, and she was so grateful for it. She looked thoughtfully at me now and again, in her final months of pregnancy, and once said something to the effect of “I see why mom tells me you were always there for her during her pregnancy. You’re caring like a baby’s father really should” and kissed me on the cheek. Of course, I blushed, at both her kiss and the nearness of her warm body. She didn’t seem to notice as she walked out to meet her mother for lunch.
Of course, her mother and I both went to the hospital for her birth, to witness our first granddaughter, Ella, enter the world, and we helped her travel back to her mother’s house and settle in. Naturally, I spent a couple nights on the couch, but after a week, when Lige had truly nested, I headed back to my cabin, not without a feeling of regret and nostalgia for the brief moment where we were all together again (+1). But, the boat had sailed, we all knew it, so away I went.
Lige took a break from painting for a month or so, but continued to visit back and forth. I had one spare room, so I bought a good portable crib for it, and Lige stayed the night on occasion. Not as regularly as before, but definitely regularly. She brought some of her paintings to hang in my house, which I was proud to show off. She also left her comfy clothes at my place (usually, t-shirts and yoga pants and panties) which I would throw in the wash when they ended up in the pile.
And, with the time she spent with me, and my stepping away from a dating life, I definitely noticed Lige’s femininity more than I had during her college years and after. While I don’t mind 20-something woman’s bodies – taut, muscular, and tanned (fantasies, lol) – Lige’s figure was fascinating to me at this point. She was built taller and curvier than her petite mother, and pregnancy had added breadth and maturity to certain parts that, when I would see her breastfeeding walking by the room, I would force both my eyes and mind away from the sight. When she would go for a run as Ella slept, I saw her beautiful hips and her sports bra stretched in ways that titillated my libido in unexpected ways.
Of course, I thought I was being very careful to avoid my eyes, and very careful to hide my unexpected desires. Naturally, she had noticed, but was sparing me embarrassment.
That changed one evening, when she was staying over and was awake for 1:30 AM feeding. Ella had apparently nursed on one side and gone back to sleep, and I heard sighs of frustration from the next room. I went to check in and found Lige with her pump nozzle under her shirt, looking … well, frustrated and in discomforted. “Everything okay?” I asked. She sighed, and pulled the pump nozzle out from under her shirt. “It’s not working,” she said, pointing at her system. I leaned down to look it over and saw the front of her shirt stained from the slight leaking, which caused me to blush a little. I quickly looked at the machine, and checked all the connections, but nothing was loose.
“Sorry,” I muttered, still hiding my blush. “Dad,” she said, and I looked at her. “It’s okay,” she said, “I know it’s been awhile since mom had me, but you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s painful and uncomfortable more than anything, but I don’t want to wake her up to try and get her to drink more. She might just throw up.” I smiled and sighed, and asked her if there was anything I could do. She said, “Could you get me a warm washcloth and keep me company for awhile?” I went to do that, and gave it to her, sitting down on the bet as she rocked a bit. After that, she lifted her shirt and began massaging her nipple and areola with the washcloth, not looking at me, just rubbing and massaging. After awhile, she said, “This is slow going. I’m sorry, if you want to go back to bed, you can.”
I replied, “I understand. I wish I could do something more for you.” She laughed, and said, “Well, the wash clothes are fine, unless you are thirsty.” I smiled and blushed and went to get her another wash cloth. When I came back, I said, “I actually used to help your mother like that. We both loved the warmth and closeness, and I didn’t mind the taste at all. She always seemed grateful.” I gave her a hug and headed back to bed.
About an hour later, I heard a knock at my door, and Lige put her head in. “Dad,” she said, “I was thinking about what you said about mom. I’m getting more swollen, Ella is out, and I can’t express anything. This is getting painful.” She signed and took a deep breath and said, in a rush, “Would you mind…helping me, like you did mom?” I blushed for a moment, seeing my fantasies at seeing more of her coming true. “Hun, I would be glad to,” I said, when I found my voice. She looked relieved and came and lay in the bed. “Here,” she said, “put your head in my lap and let me lean over.” I did so, and she pulled up her shirt, her nipple radiating warmth, and swollen, and inches from my mouth. I opened and gently began sucking at it. As she massaged her breast, she sighed, and said, “A little harder, dad, less teeth” and I opened my mouth more and broadened my suction and then warm milk spurted and dribbled down my throat. I coughed a little and she rubbed my cheek, almost naturally, and said, “Shhhh, daddy” and she sighed happily and relaxed into me.
I closed my eyes and settled in…I was vaguely aware of getting an erection, but thankfully it was under the blanket. I was half-asleep, 15 mins later, when I felt her finger break my suction on her nipple, and some milk drip down my chin. She giggled and wiped it up with a fingertip, sucking it off and smiling at my bleary self. She slid out from behind me, and kissed me lightly on the mouth. “You had some milk there,” and giggled again. Then she tucked me in and hugged me, and I fell towards a sound, warm, happy sleep.
I heard her whisper as I drifted off “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I loved this, and I love you, daddy” and she shut the door behind her.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/lby85r/part_i_a_drink_fdincestlactation
Where’s part 2????