Why Do Men Love Sucking Breastmilk?

Something that was as emotionally disturbing as it was sexually exciting, Bobbie's father, Patrick, and her boyfriend, Tyrone, wanted to suck her breastmilk from her naked breasts.

Author's Note:

This is a true story that Roberta asked me to write about her multi-millionaire father, Patrick, and her black boyfriend, Tyrone.

Everything in the story is true and is portrayed as how it happened.

# # #

My name is Roberta but everyone calls me Bobbie. A nickname my father gave me when I was younger because he had always wanted a son named after his father, Robert, instead of a daughter. I was living a good life in a quiet neighborhood in a quaint, old house, nothing fancy, in Montauk, New York, 30 miles east of the Hamptons until Daddy pulled the plug. No longer giving me money, he stopped supporting me when I became pregnant with my son, his only grandchild, Patrick, lovingly named after my father.

My father was always a dirty bastard but I thought he changed. He's the same old, miserable man who I remember hiding from him by climbing under my bed. Retired from working on Wall Street as a broker, my dad is rich. With me his only relative, I had hoped to inherit a small fortune one day when he died but with him angry with me, and threatening to remove me from his will, my inheritance is not looking good.

Comparatively, a poor woman living in a rich neighborhood, every day from my porch, I watch a procession of Ferrari's, Lamborghini's, Rolls Royce's, Bentley's, Mercedes', Maybach's, Cadillacs, and BMW's leaving from and going to the Hamptons. It's certainly good to be rich and I wish I was rich, but I'm not. Maybe one day, after my father has forgiven me and after he dies, I will be rich. I don't know. He's pretty mad at me right now.

A bit old fashion, even though I'm 30-years-old, my father didn't like the idea that I was having unwed sex. Expecting me not to have premarital sex, he expected me to live like a nun until I married. None of his business what I do with my sexlife but with his money controlling me, the purse strings that he held over my head made all of the final, financial decisions in my life.

By the way that he lustfully stared at me, I couldn't help but wonder if the reason why he was upset with me was because I wasn't having sex with him. With him an incestuous pervert, I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to have sex with me. Gross, I can't imagine ever having sex with my father.

Undressing me with his eyes, he always stared at me as if I was topless. My father was a breast man. He loved big tits. Yet, making me feel uncomfortable, he continually stared at my blouse and bra clad breasts.

He actually called me, his only daughter, a whore because I continued having premarital sex. The only thing that I could figure, maybe, he was pissed because I wasn't his whore. Again, maybe, he was pissed because I wasn't having sex with him. Maybe, something as simple as, he wanted me to suck his cock and cum in my mouth instead of me sucking the prick of someone else and allowing them to cum in my mouth.

Even though I've had only five boyfriends since high school, not counting my present boyfriends, apparently, that didn't matter to him. I was having unwed sex. How do I respond to that when my own father thinks me a whore for playing the field while looking for love and searching for my future husband? Compared to some of the women today, I'm the farthest thing from a whore.

Not a party girl, if anything, I'm modestly moral, especially when it comes to my father. I've never sexually teased my dad. I've never given him deliberate upskirt flashes of my panties and/or downblouse views of my cleavage and bra clad breasts. I've never sexually tempted him to have forbidden sex with me.

# # #

"Everyone has unwed sex today, daddy," I said shocked that as a 30-year-old woman that I had to defend and explain my personal and private sexlife to him. "It's not the big deal that it used to be back in the late 50's and early 60's when you were dating mom," I said.

With him not having had sex with my mother until after he married her, and with them both virgins when they married, he believed that I shouldn't have sex with anyone until after I was married to them. Then, when I became pregnant with a black man's child, and without a ring on my finger, that was it for him. He wanted nothing more to do with me, his only child, and/or with my son, his only grandchild.

I always knew that daddy was a racist, yet, how dare he want nothing more to do with me? Patrick is his only grandson. How could he disown us?

As if pulling the plug on a jukebox machine at midnight, the party was over and the money train came to a complete and abrupt stop before derailing. Everything monetarily changed overnight. Threatening to write me out of his will and give all of his money to charity, he cut me off and refused to continue to support me, his loving daughter and his only child. My father could be a miserable bastard whenever he wasn't getting his way. He expected me to obey his every wish and whim without question and without complaint.

Even though daddy is very rich and can well afford to support me. He stopped giving me a one-thousand-dollar a week stipend for my living expenses. He stopped paying my mortgage. He stopped paying my credit cards. He stopped paying my cellphone and my cable bill. He stopped paying my car insurance, medical insurance, and life insurance. He stopped giving me money.

As generous as he was with his money before, there would be no more gift money for birthdays and for Christmases. As if we no longer existed, he was done supporting me and my newborn son. If I lose my house, I'll be homeless. I'll be begging on the street. Only, with there no begging allowed in the Hamptons, I'd be arrested for begging and thrown in jail while my son was transferred to child, protective services.

Totally cut off, all of my living expenses were on me, now. Fortunately, knowing how he is, blowing hot and cold all the time, as if flipping a switch, I'm glad that I had the forethought to put some money aside. I saved enough money to tide me over for a year but then what? What do I do when that money is gone? How do I support myself without daddy's help?

With him always given positive feedbacks and monetarily rewarded for his masterful stock trades, I suspected that he had a male, borderline personality disorder and used his narcissist behavior to try to control me. Only with him being unreasonable and not willing to change, either I had to give in to his demands of not having premarital sex or be homeless. Dependent on his money, he held all the cards, all aces, while I held the jokers.

"Daddy, why are you doing this? Please don't do this," I said before he slammed his front door shut in my face. "Daddy. Daddy," I said ringing his doorbell and banging on his front door.

# # #

Everything dramatically changed after my mother died. A freak accident, tragically, traumatically, and shockingly when bumped in a crowd of Christmas shoppers, my mother fell backwards and hit the back of her head on a curbstone while people stepped on her and walked over her. Fortunately for her, not having to relearn how to walk and talk, she died instantly and didn't linger on with severe brain damage.

"Daddy, I need to buy a bra," I said out of the clear blue while fed-up with not wearing a brassiere.

Finally, when I was 18-years-old, I found the courage to ask him to buy me a bra. Embarrassed to ask him, I had never worn a bra before. With us taking the same bra size, I could have worn my mother's bras but he boxed them all up with her clothes and jewelry and gave them away. With no trace of her, it was as if she never existed.

With him boxing away all of her photos, too, I had nothing to remind me of her. Stuck living with my father, to say that I missed my mother was a huge understatement. Devastated that she died, I was lost without her. I'd pray to her every night and every morning but with nothing there to remind me of my mother, she slowly faded from my mind.

"I love you, Mommy," I'd say kissing the one, small photo that I found of her that my father hadn't destroyed.

# # #

Yet, as if it was something that he dreaded doing, he procrastinated taking me bra shopping. Putting it off for as long as he could, he needed to buy me a bra, a big bra as my breasts went from a C cup to a D cup and to a double D cup seemingly overnight. I was uncomfortable walking, especially when running, without my breasts being supported by a bra. With my braless breasts swaying side to side or flopping up and down, I was embarrassed. With my big, braless breasts clearly obvious under my clothes, whatever I wore, I felt sloppy.

My father didn't seem to care that it physically hurt me not to wear a brassiere. Instead, he seemed content to stare at all that he could see of the shape and the size of my big breasts through whatever I was wearing. Then, whenever my nipples erected and made their presence known, as if he was imagining sucking my tits and fingering my nipples, he never removed his stare from my erect nipples. He made me feel topless. In the way that he stared at my blouse clad breasts, he made me feel that he could see even more of my breasts than he saw.

I never deemed my father for an incestuous pervert but, in his old age, I guess he was. Always making me feel sexually uncomfortable with his lustful stares, he continually embarrassed me. He made me feel that I stood before him topless even though I was fully dressed, albeit without a bra. He made me feel self-conscious. As if I was sexually teasing him when, assuredly, I wasn't, he made me feel dirty. He made me feel like the whore that he called me and accused me of being.

Instead of just giving me the money to buy my own damn bras, I was embarrassed that I had to ask to him to take me to buy a bra. The last thing that I wanted to do was to go bra shopping with my dad. Troubled that he didn't even know to take me to buy a bra, that was an uncomfortable moment in my life. After my physically and verbally, abusive childhood, I didn't like to ask him for anything, especially something as personal as him buying me a brassiere. My embarrassment continued when I had to shop for a brassiere with my father tagging along with me.

Awkward at best and embarrassing at worst when shopping for bras with my father, he seemed fine with shopping in the women's lingerie department. As if he had a fetish for touching and feeling bras, he seemed to enjoy handling all the different styles of brassieres while looking for my size. Even more embarrassing, something I thought he'd never do and would never do if my mother was still alive, he insisted on coming in the dressing room with me while I tried on bras.

'How embarrassing is this,' I thought? 'Totally bizarre, I can't believe my father is in the dressing room with me.'

"Daddy, no," I said. "Stay out here, please," begging him not to come in the dressing room with me.

He made a face while brushing me off.

"If I'm paying for them, I want to see how they look on you," he said while continuing to insist on coming in the dressing room with me to watch me try on bras.

'I'm so embarrassed,' I thought with the saleswoman looking at me as if he was my sugar daddy of a boyfriend instead of my perverted father.

# # #

With my father there with me in the dressing room watching me trying on different styles of bras, there was only so much of my naked breasts that I could hide from his probing eyes with my hands and my forearms. He continued staring and leering at all that he could see of my naked breasts. Totally embarrassed, I continually turned away from him, yet, whatever I couldn't conceal with my hands and forearms when removing bras and putting on bras, he could still see my naked breasts in the dressing room mirror.

Again, as if he was my sugar daddy instead of my biological father buying me bras, I was mortified that my father was in the dressing room with me. I was humiliated that he had, no doubt, seen me topless. Moreover, with him staring and not looking away, he wanted to continue to see my naked breasts as much as I didn't want to show him my naked breasts. No matter how I turned away from him and angled myself, every time I removed one bra to try on another bra, he could still see my naked tits in the dressing room mirror.

'My father saw my naked breasts. I'm giving him a private peep show of my tits,' I thought. 'I can't believe my father saw my naked tits. I'm so embarrassed. I'm humiliated,' I thought. 'I'm so ashamed. He made me feel as if I was a whore, his whore.'

Back then, with me an 18-year-old virgin, shockingly yet, fittingly enough with my father always getting his way, he was the first man who ever saw my naked breasts. I was ashamed that my father saw me topless. With me still topless and covering as much of my naked breasts as I could with my hands and forearms, he continually came over to me while holding, yet, another bra for me to try on. Clearly, while hoping to see more of my naked breasts, he just wanted to watch me trying on bras. He just wanted to see my naked tits.

"What about this one? This is nice. I like how it feels," he said feeling the bra as if he was feeling my bra clad breasts. "I like the color."

I stood there topless with my hands cupping my naked breasts. Nevertheless, tired of trying to conceal my naked tits, from him and with me finally submitting to him, with my chest puffed out and my chin up, I stood with my arms by my sides. I showed him all that he wanted to see of my naked tits. I proudly and unashamedly showed my father my naked breasts.

Then, as if rewarding me for showing him my naked tits, costing him several hundred dollars, I couldn't believe it when he bought me a dozen assorted bras in different styles and colors, a variety of panties in different styles and colors, and an endless array of sexy nightgowns. That was the first time that I felt like a millionaire's daughter. Figuring that this may be my one and only shopping spree, I asked my father to buy me makeup and perfume. Smelling only the expensive ones, he seemed delighted picking out the perfumes for me to wear.

Instead of him seeing my naked breasts, which he managed to do anyway, after showing him my naked tits, once I was wearing a bra, feeling sexy, I didn't mind modeling my bra clad breasts for him. After all, he was the one who paid for them. Yet, I felt invaded for giving in to him and showing him my naked tits after I tried on and removed bra after bra. With him having a bulge in his pants, seemingly, he liked seeing my bra clad breasts as much as he like seeing my naked tits. Clearly, my father was an incestuous pervert.

# # #

Amazed that I did, while looking at my bra clad breasts in the dressing room mirror, looking even bigger in the dressing room mirror, as if they grew bigger overnight, I suddenly had enormous breasts. I had bigger breasts than most of the girls at my college. My breasts were even bigger than my mother's big breasts.

Undressing me with their eyes, seemingly preoccupied with my huge breasts, every man in all of my college classes stared at my bra clad breasts, including my father, especially my father. In the way that my dad looked at me, stared at me, and leered at me, totally enamored with them, I could tell that he loved my big tits. They all loved my big tits. Only, I was uncomfortable with him constantly and continually staring at my bra clad breasts as if I was topless.

For sure, with my mom having big tits, my father loved big, breasted women and specifically, he loved my big tits. After dressing me as a boy for years, he now seemed proud that I had tits, big tits. For sure, if I ever asked him to take me bra shopping again, with him there in the dressing room with me and with him seeing my naked breasts, I wouldn't have to ask him twice.

Definitely, he would jump at the chance to go if I asked him to take me shopping for bikinis. I couldn't imagine stripping myself naked while trying on bikinis with my father in the dressing room. In the way that I was surprised that he didn't reach out his horny hand to touch and feel my naked breasts, if he took me shopping for bikinis, I wondered if he'd touch and feel my naked ass while fingering my pussy. Yet, enough he saw my naked breasts, I wouldn't want him to see the rest of my naked body.

'Gross,' I thought. 'I would never want my father to see me naked.'

With money not mattering to him, and with me suddenly having wicked, incestuous thoughts, I wondered if he'd give me money for deliberately showing him my naked breasts. Something that I'd never do but I wondered how much money he'd give me for allowing him to touch, feel, squeeze, and fondle my naked breasts while sucking my erect nipples. In the way that he continually stared at my bra clad breasts, I'd be willing to bet that he wouldn't say no to paying me to have his wicked, sexual way with my naked tits.

'Only perish the thought. As soon as I thought about my father seeing, touching, feeling, squeezing, and fondling my naked breasts while sucking my erect nipples, I was sick to my stomach. Yet, no doubt, my father would love to have his wicked, sexual way with my big, naked breasts. No doubt, he'd pay me big bucks to allow him to have incestuous sex with my naked body,' I thought.

# # #

I looked just like my mother in the way that I remember her looking instead of looking like my father, thank God. With my father short, fat, and bald, I was glad that I looked nothing like him. I had my mother's 5'9" height, her long, blonde hair, and her big, blue eyes. If I say so myself, I was pretty, very pretty, indeed.

If not even a little bigger, I had the same breast size as my mother's big, double D cup breasts. Enamored with my own tits, I couldn't stop staring at them in my full-length mirror. I couldn't stop touching them, feeling them, and fondling them. I couldn't stop pulling, turning, twisting, and sucking my erect nipples when masturbating myself. The best thing that could have happened to me as a sexy and shapely woman, my new sexual toys, I was proud of my big tits.

I enjoyed sexually teasing men with my big breasts. I enjoyed the way that men stared at me, especially when I wore something tight fitting and/or low-cut. With my big tits opening doors and leading the way, the first things that men saw when I rounded a corner and walked in a room were my big tits. I enjoyed being the center of attention. I felt how Jenny McCarthy as a Playboy Playmate and how Christina Hendricks and Sofia Vergara must feel when flashing their big F cup breasts. With me garnering lots of sexual attention from men, I felt sexy. I felt horny.

I loved wearing sexy and revealing bikinis, sheer blouses and tight-fitting clothes that flattered my curves. I loved exposing my long line of sexy cleavage to men. I enjoyed exposing the shapely size of my nearly, naked breasts and the impressions of my erect nipples when leaning in front of men and deliberately showing them all that they hoped to see down my blouses. In the way that my flashing men made them hard, if they only knew that their staring at me with sexual lust made me wet with sexual desire.

Yet, bad enough that my father saw me in my bra, when he took me bra shopping four-years-ago, I was still embarrassed that he saw my naked breasts. An image that I couldn't erase from my mind, he saw me topless. He stared at my big, naked tits as if he had never seen big, naked tits before. He stared at my naked breasts as if I was his whore paid to model for him while topless.

With him staring at his own daughter's naked breasts, totally disgusting, my father is such a dirty, old man. Yet, he's a very rich, dirty, old man and now that I know that he's totally enamored with my naked breasts, I hoped to use my big tits to get whatever I wanted from my dad. Now, that he's already seen my naked tits, no longer shy or embarrassed to be topless in front of him, if I had to flash my naked breasts to my father for money, I would. Perhaps, I am a whore, an incestuous whore.