The Harvest [MF] [2nd Person] [Male POV] [Stepcest] [Breeding] [Dubcon]

**When it comes to daddy issues, you reap what you sow.**

Your name is Lucien Menendez: restauranteur, divorcee, one-time father of three. Today, for your fortieth birthday, you’ve arranged a little treat for yourself in the guest room of your mansion.

“Suck,” you command.

The topless brunette kneeling beneath you gives your cock another lazy lick with her tongue. Warm and wet, running up and down the throbbing vein underneath. You hiss, more impatient than appreciative. With her hair in your fist and the growl of her name- Melody- in your throat, you press your sensitive tip against her ruby lips seeking entrance. You’ve had enough; she’s not skilled enough a cocksucker to finish you with just halfhearted tongue play, nor well-endowed enough to finish you between her pert but modest breasts. No, you need to feel her hot little mouth around the whole length of you *now.*

The moment she relents and opens up you surge forth to fuck her face in earnest. Melody makes beautiful music as you bottom out in the tight warmth of her throat, a symphony of gags and gargles. She merely endures this, you’ve gathered over time, but choking on your cock and her own saliva doesn’t seem unpleasant enough for her to stop you. And of course you do stop, on principle; you don’t stay where you’re not welcome and you’d never stoop to rape. But you’re no simpering sugar daddy either. You’d rather hire an actual whore, unsavory though the idea may be, than let some conniving frat girl milk your wallet dry for merely mediocre sex.

The tight ring of her lips sliding up and down the base of your cock quickly builds your pleasure up to a searing peak and you unload in spurts, pulling back just far enough to coat the back of her tongue in your essence. One hell of a load; you’ve been backed up after a month without release. She keeps her mouth open to show you the pool of milky evidence as trained, swallowing it all in one quick gulp not a moment after you give her permission. It’s the next best thing to spitting and you’ve expressly forbidden that. Despite the recent orgasm, your cock stirs a little at the lewd sight. Or maybe it’s the reluctance written all over her pretty face.

You’ve made the terms of this arrangement abundantly clear to Melody just as you did all your other fucktoys before her. She’s here on your terms and you draw the lines. Even one objection means everything comes to a clean end and with it, her monthly dinner date at the fancier establishments in your budding empire.

She has good taste, if only in that regard.

You paved your road out of childhood poverty off your own gift of taste. A meager scholarship hadn’t covered the full price of culinary school, so you’d spent all your free time working as a line cook. You were a natural from the moment you picked up a spatula and with all the extra sweat put in, shot quickly to the top of your class before exploding onto the fine dining scene in tony Orange County. One taste of *abuela’s* mole recipe fused with some French fish dish by your impeccable technique, and all of a sudden the waspy patrons of Newport Beach were lining up to shell out forty bucks a plate for tame takes on the flavors you’d enjoyed as a child for pocket change.

You were rich, but all the time spent amassing your little fortune had taken its toll on your personal life. Which is how you find yourself here, in between unsatisfying dates with women your own age. Now you don’t find forty-year-olds unattractive *per se*, but you treat your own body like a temple. The former housewives and career chasers you seem to always match with rarely meet that standard; most had frankly let themselves go.

Not you; you’ve maintained the same strict routine since your star athlete high school days and reaped the rewards. You could pass for early thirties if not for the silver strands in your otherwise jet black hair, and you’re still the living definition of tall, dark and handsome at six-two with the face of a Latin lover on the body of a Greek god. Half Mexican and a quarter Japanese, to women you’re the same winning formula of just-exotic-enough as your food.

Enrique Iglesias with a gym membership, or so Melody likes to brag to her friends.

Not like you’re planning on keeping her around long enough to meet them, if she doesn’t do a better job keeping you satisfied. The thought gets you to rake your hungry eyes over her nubile body. She’s not the most arousing girl you’ve bedded- a little gangly and bony, nothing special by SoCal standards and a far cry in sexual prowess from your devil ex-wife. Yet you’re fully hard again not ten minutes from your last orgasm.

You’re not quite a pornstar at six and a half inches but you *are* fairly thick, too thick for smaller girls to touch fingers wrapping around. What makes you too much for most women, however, isn’t the hardware. You have the stamina and recovery time of boys half your age, your cardio pumping you full of a veiny hardness those porn-addled college kids could only envy.

A hardness Melody enjoys on the days you choose not to push her limits; not today.

You pull her legs apart to spy the wetness between her white panties; you recall the subtle arm movements she’d tried to hide while blowing you. Normally you’d punish her for touching without permission but today, you’re glad she’s prepared herself for the gauntlet to come. Ignoring every protest you rip the expensive fabric clean off, throw her onto the bed facedown, and enter her from behind with a single vicious roll of your hips.

While you never make love to your fucktoys, you usually return the foreplay with your fingers. Sometimes you even reward a blowjob well done with the practiced touch of your own tongue. But today is about *your* pleasure and nothing else. You take her slowly but roughly, gripping each buttock at the tan line hard enough to bruise. Each thrust rattles her smaller body and penetrates the full length of her. You take the time to enjoy every shaky hiss and moan you draw, every wet fold of her tight cunt gripping and massaging your cock from root to tip.

“Can you finish inside my ass today? I’ve lubed it already.”

All in due time, you think. Instead of dignifying her with a response you grab a handful of palm-sized breast and tweak the pebbled bud at the end until she gasps in pain.

“Please,” she whines. “I’m not on…I forgot to take the pill.”

The thought only arouses you more. You pull out just long enough to flip her onto her back and kiss her before plunging back into her velvet depths with violent fervor. You were content to savor her pussy in no rush to chase your peak, but that was before you knew you could potentially plant a baby into her fertile young womb. Driven by that insatiable instinct to breed, you seize her by the wrists and pound her into the bed like the fuck-puppet she is.

“Stop. Stop!”

Two stops is technically the *safe word*, though you loathe using that term. At the very last moment you come to your senses and exercise every ounce of your restraint to pull out of her warmth and spurt onto the sheets instead. It’s the most underwhelming orgasm you’ve had in years.

When Melody realizes what she’s done her face falls. She begs you wide-eyed, which might’ve worked for a careless mistake on the same day but not for weeks of negligence. You’d given ample notice of the occasion; of what was expected of her, a full month in advance.

You send her off for the last time politely but firmly, with a check in hand to replace her designer underwear you ruined and a little more on top to soothe tempers. After one ugly close call in court a few years ago you’ve taken every measure to insure yourself documenting consent, and you’d chosen Melody over more attractive candidates precisely for that minimal level of intelligence to realize she’d never get anywhere on an unsubstantiated rape charge.

But you’d rather be extra safe to save yourself the headache.

Disgruntled, you turn to work to distract yourself from your sexual frustration. You sift through your message inbox which always seems to fill up faster than you can reply. Always a businessman at heart, you gave up the apron years ago and now deal in the pros and cons of managing an empire. You check in with the chef you’ve hired to take over the kitchen at your flagship, then knock off a mountain of supply inquiries with the management team of your burgeoning fast-casual chain. Finally there’s only one more unread message left. Your heart lifts a little; it’s the one you look forward to every year.

*Happy birthday Dad!*

You send your response quickly, more or less the same as always.

*Thanks for thinking of me, Ashley. How are things at home?*

Ashley’s the only one you’ve stayed in contact with on and off over the years. The black sheep among her sisters who still thinks of you as their dad, probably because she’s also the only one who was too young back then to understand what a shit father you were. You could’ve fought so much harder for visitation rights, but in your blind rage you’d stopped thinking of them as your children. Because they weren’t, not by blood at least; your hellspawn ex had robbed you of that chance.

You think maybe Jessica caused your obsession with finishing inside a girl. Maybe if you’d come in her slut cunt more often and wasted less on her lying face, you’d have managed to squeeze a bun of your own in there between all the other cocks she’d taken behind your back.

Instead here you are at forty with the biological clock ticking down, no child of your own seed and no wife to willingly bear you one. The thought of your bloodline ending with you is anathema, a fate your animal instincts fear far more than death itself. You could remedy that easily enough but you’ve grown sick of sugar babies and gold diggers and *especially* divorcees with children of their own to waste your energy raising again.

Your phone vibrates. You read Ashley’s response.

*Bad. Mom’s being a bitch and this guy she’s seeing thinks he’s my dad or something. At least senior year’s almost over. If I spend another year here they’ll find my body in the river.*

*Can’t you move out? You’re an adult now*, you reply.

*She’ll cut off my tuition. No job or anywhere to stay. Btw old man, check your damn Insta already. I’d be your age by the time you added me back.*

With nothing else to do for the waste of a birthday you’d cleared your schedule for, you decide to humor her and open Instagram for the first time in a while. Social media appealed to you when you were young and vain but now you only bother uploading photos to set bait for your next Gen-Z fucktoy.

Sure enough you’ve gained a dozen followers, one of them Ashley. You return the favor and habitually reach to close the app. But a last-second whim makes you curious enough to think, why not?

You nearly drop the phone when you open her latest post.

She’s *gorgeous.*

Skin the color of burnt caramel, a cute button nose and shining green eyes, shapely breasts snug under a sweater. In the decade since the divorce, the little girl who’d once played on your lap had grown into one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

Ashley had been the one to tip you off as she got older. Her skin tone had turned as dark as yours but it was her voluminous frizzy hair that had really roused your suspicions. You were no geneticist, but you had no immediate black ancestry and knew better than to believe lily-white Jessica’s bullshit about her own. When the paternity tests revealed one brutal truth after another, you’d snapped. Slapped your remorseless wife three times across the face, once for each negative match; enough to constitute domestic abuse, in the eyes of a jury.

They might have been more sympathetic to your cause had they known that between the despair she’d caused you and the physical pain you, her, the masochistic slut had wet herself on the spot. Not admissible evidence in court, sadly.

You skim through Ashley’s history with rapt interest now, looking for a shot with her sisters in it. A rare flash of red hair demands your attention but on closer inspection you realize the girl’s too plain and too young to be Alex, twenty-one now by your math. You give up even quicker looking for Kristen; way too many blonde friends to sift through. A recent photo catches your eye for a different reason, though. A beach pic of Ashley alone.

In nothing but a red bikini so skimpy her firm tits threaten to spill out the top, thin enough for you to make out the pebbled shape of her hard nipples.

You’re hard again *instantly.* Any moral part of you that finds this wrong only fuels your growing lust. You’re seeing her in a whole new light; she’s your daughter in just a sense, one that even heightens her appeal. The intimate dependency she once had on you is the most delicious form of taboo. What disgusts you isn’t incest, but rather inbreeding. And not only is Ashley as biologically distant from you as any girl on Earth, she looks just about as fertile too.

For the first time in years, you’re compelled to masturbate. With spit as lubrication, your hand wraps around your cock as you imagine yourself introducing it to those plump dick-sucking lips of hers. You imagine teaching her to suck cock with all the doting patience of a father showing his daughter how to drive, and rewarding her by tasting her pussy. You imagine kneading her sizable breasts as you praise her for how much bigger they are than her mother’s. And when you imagine her calling you Daddy as you shove that slip of red fabric aside to pound your essence into her eighteen-year-old womb, your pleasure mounts into a white-hot peak better than any of your fucktoys have ever given you.

You’ve made up your mind. Ashley will be *yours.* You’ll win her over mind, heart and body, and she’ll give you what her mother denied you for years. A child of your seed.

Heart racing, you compose your next message to her carefully.

*If you want, you can stay with me for a while.*

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/oo0p0o/the_harvest_mf_2nd_person_male_pov_stepcest