"Feed her," his voice croons.
"I just did," you mumble and clutch the baby as if to shield yourself from the condescending tone of his voice.
"You're not doing it right."
At this, you blanch and look up at him, the accusation light and conversational as ever, but only a fool would buy into any air of his indifference.
And indeed, with his frame leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, blocking off any exit he'll use any means to keep you trapped on that bed.
Physical means included, as the proof fusses in your arms and turns her head left and right to suckle at what you don't want to give her.
It's not like you hate her, or anything. But when you're bound to the testament of your violation for the rest of your life, you figure you're entitled to sinking into the reprieve of catatonia here and there. Postpartum depression would've come on its own as it does with any woman, but your circumstances simply expedited the fuzz that plagues your mind.
Its unfortunate for you that your captor doesn't offer the same notion of theory for your predicament.
He pushes off from the door and you rouse too late, desperately adjusting the baby to a position where she can nurse easier.
It's not enough though, and you cower as he looms over you and his daughter, inspecting her comfort.
"Let me help."
The hairs on your arms raise as he descends onto the bed, his touch soft but firm as he guides your limbs to hold her better. And sure enough, within a few minutes her happy coos can be heard amidst her sucking.
You wince as your nipples are gnashed against her gums, but you stifle your expression when you see the stone-cold look on his face.
He won't allow you to sink to mediocrity.
He's drilled it into you literally and figuratively- this is your role.
As his dutiful wife, and as a dedicated mother.
Any complaint, any hesitation in performing the role he's forced you into will be met with nothing but brute force, and punishments that render your body limp and unresponsive.
Bleeding tits arent something you're unused to, to say the least.
It's quiet as your baby nurses, but its hard to zone out when he watches with such intensity. His eyes are at half-mast, in a daze as his mouth slightly parts when your tits heave from you stifling your cries as your sore nipples are used as udders.
He palms himself, the baby practically forgotten as his gaze switches between your pained expression and your trembling hand kneading your tits to quicken the milk flow.
Its degrading, it's vulnerable to the worst extent, and it's what makes you a woman.
Eventually your baby finishes, and he has enough self restraint to gently carry her into the nursery and deposit her in the bassinett.
Your limbs feel like lead as you're stuck there on the bed, feeling less human and more like a blowup doll as you wait for your impending doom, his heavy and purposeful footsteps feeling like a warpath to you.
Eyes downcast, shirt still ruffled on you, milkstains dribbling down your chest...you're picturesque to him.
You watch as he takes a step towards you.
"Daddy's turn," he singsongs softly.
One knee comes up on the mattress and it sinks under his weight as he begins to crawl towards you like a madman, sticking his neck out and licking long, indulgent stripes up your stomach and chest, practically giving you a tongue bath as he cleans up your leftover milk.
"Gentle, please, ah-!" You writhe in his hold as his tongue circles and prods at your nipples for nectar, hissing through your teeth as one hand of his massages your chest and the other trailing in between your thighs.
He takes a moment to slam you down onto the bed, basking in the pleading look you give him as he pulls his shirt off over his head and lowers his pants.
You're not allowed to wear panties on at home, and in times like this where he's as desperate as a dog to hump you, he's glad he enforced the rule.
Your soft skirt is ripped down your legs and you bite your lip as he takes his dick and taps it on your mound. It's hard and thick, heavy on you as precum oozes down his length and splatters a bit onto you when he dribbles it on your mons.
"How's that feel mommy?" your captor husband murmurs, taking care to grip himself by the base and push up and down your folds, parting your moist lips and sucking in through his teeth as his tip catches onto your clit.
He holds himself there, feeling you pulsate around his sensitivity. You turn your face to hide in the sheets, gripping the cotton around you as you feel like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered in this position.
Paying no heed to your discomfort, he grunts slightly and yanks your knees apart, pulling them on either side of his hips as he nestles closer, slightly rubbing up and down your wetness to stimulate himself. He leans down and drapes himself on top of you, settling his head atop the rise of your chest and turning it to face you.
He looks so innocent like this, looking up at you with big eyes and a playful pout. You could almost imagine him being clueless if not for the monster throbbing in between your slick lips. He tuts when tears squeeze out of your eyes, and uses a massive palm to turn your face back towards him.
"None of that now mama. Why y'look so scared, hmm?"
His fingers push your cheeks together to mirror his pout, and you can do nothing but look at him helplessly as he maneuvers you like a ragdoll.
You're his wife, his toy, his trophy, his plaything, his possession.
"Daddy just wants to make loooovvveeee," he leers and stretches the word out, snickering when you cringe and wrench your face out of his grasp.
With a firm squeeze to your tit, he anchors himself and sinks into you, inch by inch. Your mouth falls open and you groan in pain, your body writhing on the tousled sheets as he drinks in the view.
He's gonna milk you for all your worth.
