"But you don't need that out there," he continued, positioning himself between my spread thighs. "Because you haveme. Have this. Have exactly what that broken little girl inside has been searching for."
"Please—"
"Please what?" He traced my entrance through the soaked panties, making me arch. "Use your words. Tell Daddy what you need."
"I need—" The words caught, pride warring with seven weeks of conditioning. "I need you."
"Need me to what?"
"To—to fuck me." The admission burned. "To stop being careful. To—"
"To make you mine completely?" He pushed the panties aside, and I felt him there, right there, after weeks of everything but this. "To stop pretending this is research when we both know it became something else the moment you said please?"
"Yes."
"Then drink." He brought the bottle back to my lips. "Every swallow, I'll give you more. Stop drinking, I stop moving. Understand?"
I nodded, taking the nipple back into my mouth. The first swallow coincided with him pushing inside, and the dual sensation made me moan around the bottle. Full in every way, claimed in every way, exactly as overwhelmed as I'd been craving.
"Good girl," he breathed, and I felt him shaking with the effort of going slow. "Been wanting this for so long. Wanting you. Do you know what torture it's been? Watching you come apart on my fingers, my tongue, that fucking machine, butnever—"
I swallowed again, and he pushed deeper, cutting off his own words with a groan. The bottle forced me to focus, to work for what I wanted. Each gulp earned another inch, another moment of connection I'd been denying myself out of principle I couldn't even name anymore.
"Look at you," he said when he was fully seated, both of us trembling with the newness of it. "Finally where you belong. Full of Daddy's cock and nursing like the good little girl you pretend you don't want to be."
I should have been humiliated. Should have been fighting. Instead, I was lost in sensation—him inside me, the warm milk coating my throat, the weight of his body holding me in place. This was what I'd wanted, what I'd pushed for. Complete surrender, but on terms that felt like victory.
The bottle was half empty now, and he started to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that made me moan around the nipple. He watched my face with those analytical eyes, cataloguing every response, filing away what made me clench around him.
"Seven weeks," he said, voice rougher now. "Seven weeks of wanting this. Of you spread beneath me, taking everything I give. Do you know how many protocols I'm breaking right now?"
I swallowed in response, earning another thrust that hit exactly where I needed. The rhythm was maddening—dependent entirely on my compliance, my willingness to nurse from the bottle like the baby he'd accused me of being.
"All of them," he answered himself. "Every single rule about distance and objectivity and professional boundaries. Because of you. Because you crawled under my skin and made ahome there. Because you're mine in ways that have nothing to do with contracts."
The bottle was getting light, maybe a quarter left. Panic fluttered in my chest—when it was empty, would he stop? Leave me empty and aching like another lesson in asking nicely?
"Please," I mumbled around the nipple.
"Please what? More milk?" He smiled, dark and knowing. "You'll have to ask properly. Let Daddy know what his baby needs."
I let the nipple fall from my lips, milk dripping down my chin. "Please, Daddy. More milk. Need—need more."
"Need more milk? Or need me to keep fucking you?"
"Both." The honesty came easier now, with him buried inside me and my defenses shattered. "Please, Daddy. Need to be full. Need you to—to keep going."
"There's my honest girl." He reached to the nightstand, producing another bottle. This one was fuller, heavier. "But this time, you'll have to work for it. Show me how grateful you are."
He pulled out slowly, the loss making me whimper. But before I could protest, he was repositioning us—him sitting against the headboard, me in his lap. The new angle when he pulled me down onto him made stars explode behind my eyes.
"Now," he said, pressing the new bottle to my lips. "Drink while you ride Daddy. Show me what a good baby you can be."
The position required coordination—nursing from the bottle while moving on him, finding rhythm that satisfied both needs. But something about the challenge focused me,narrowed my world to sensation and submission and the warm sweet milk that tasted like giving up.
"Perfect," he murmured, hands on my hips guiding my movement. "Look at you. So desperate to be filled. To be fed. To be fucked. My needy little girl who fought so hard against what she needed most."
I moved faster, chasing something that built with each swallow. The bottle created a rhythm—suck, swallow, rise, fall. My body knew the dance now, trained by weeks of conditioning to seek pleasure in obedience.
