My stepmother needs me to help her cum.. Here’s part 2 (Stepmother: I finally get a taste of my stepmother’s milk).. “Paul… I’m leaking.”
I heard my stepmother’s voice, timid yet urgent, coming from behind me. I turned and saw she had stopped a few feet back, slightly hunched over, a red flush spreading across her face. Sure enough, there were two small dark circles on her purple shirt.
My eyes widened and I felt my pulse spike. At the same time, my cock twitched in my pants. We hadn’t yet gotten everything we needed for dinner, but I didn’t want to embarrass Pam by making her walk around while her tits slowly leaked breast milk onto her clothes. Besides, the prospect of getting my hands on her was a lot more enticing.
“Okay,” I said, my throat suddenly gone dry. “Okay, c’mon, let’s go.” I walked towards her and grabbed the basket hanging off her arm, placing it in the cart and wheeling towards the front of the store.
The place was strangely crowded for the middle of the day, or at least I thought so; women of various ages and elderly couples meandered about the store, presumably doing exactly what we were doing, preparing for dinner for that night. We stood in line, waiting with six people in front of us. I could hear Pam squirming behind me – hell, I could practically feel it, she was standing so close. I imagine she was trying to hide the evidence of her embarrassment. I wished I could do the same: with every brush of her nipples against my shoulder, I felt another rush of blood surge to my aching cock.
It was torture standing there for so long. Finally we were next in line, and I began taking groceries from the basket and placing them on the conveyor belt, trying to ignore the throbbing sensation in my pants. Pamela was motionless, her arms crossed over her breasts, effectively hiding the wet stains, but pushing them up and out in a way that definitely didn’t cool me down any. The cashier kept giving me strange looks as he scanned our items and placed them in bags. I tried my best to avoid eye contact, busying myself with placing the bags back into the cart.
“That’ll be $52.96.”
When nothing happened for a few seconds, I glanced up to see Pam staring at the floor, face gone white. Then I realized: her wallet was in her purse, slung over her shoulder, and she couldn’t reach it without moving her arms.
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I thought to rush over and retrieve the wallet myself, but Pamela had already dropped her arms.
My eyes widened and I stared transfixed at the prominent dark splotches on her shirt. They were much larger than they were before, and very obvious. My stepmother kept her eyes trained on the ground, rummaging through her purse and pulling out her wallet. She handed her card to the cashier without looking at him. I couldn’t see his face, captivated as I was by those wet stains, but I’m sure his expression was just as shocked as mine.
I stood there clutching the handle of the basket with a death grip as Pam gave her signature and the cashier asked if she would like her receipt. His voice was high-pitched and squeaky, and I couldn’t blame him. Pamela took her card, crossed her arms again and began walking. We rushed out the store as quickly as we could.