You need to prepare her for motherhood.

You're not a doctor, and so you technically can't answer her question in earnest. You do know a doctor, however: an old friend named Nathan York, a man whose immorality, immaturity, and early obsessions with cooking LSD always made you question how anyone would've thought it wise to give him a medical degree or, more alarming, a post in the cancer ward of the nearby hospital. He was the de-facto dealer for you and your friends back inthe day, being the only one interested enough in chemistry but terrified of dealing professionally, and so you two have had, for many years now, an understanding: large sums of money for whatever **** or chemicals you might desire. While you two only barely kept in contact while you were married, you made sure to rebuild that bridge, blame the rift between you two on your dead wife and, once you renewed being thick as thieves with ol' Nathan, hit him up for another favor.

Not like old times, however. This time, you needed the good doctor to figure out what you need, and get it to your new girlfriend quickly (you showed him a naked photo of Penelope, as taken with your hidden cameras. Many a high-five were had as part of his response). What could someone as smoking hot as her want? Why, additional breast growth, you confessed to him, but naturally induced and without implants. "Well, there's plenty of quackery about massages and ointments," he coyly suggested, "but unless she's alright with lactating too, I'm afraid good medicine has nothing for her."

Oh, but she wouldn't mind lactating at all, you advised.

The cocktail mixed inside this needle, after following his very careful instructions on how to conduct your own amateur pharmacy down here in the basement, contains several chemicals (metoclopramide, domperidone, sulpiride- really, the list was long, and despite your education you wouldn't want to risk trying to pronounce the rest of them) dedicated to, among a variety of other effects, the production of milk in human females. Any one of them would've sufficed... and if you cared about her discomfort more than the rewards of temporary, chemically-induced breast hypertrophy, you would've only included one instead of nearly a dozen.

In short, you'd be shooting her breasts full of unhealthy amounts of growth and lactation-inducing chemicals... along with the natural chemical load from what must, by now, be her impregnation. The good Doctor York advised that such was neither healthy nor painless, though he assured you this dose would not endanger her life, beyond a future of back problems common in large-breasted women. His conscience, as always, found relief in money: a sum that would be embarrassing for you if his advice was fraudulent. You'd have to live humbly, at least until the next life insurance payment came in.

Of course, none of this was relevant to your keen-eyed daughter's question. "This," you whisper, gently tapping the side of the needle, "is timeout for you, young lady... and we're going to go through this every day until I'm sure you've learned your lesson."

You approach her, the needle menacing as it nears her tender, naked flesh. "D-Daddy, I learned! I learned my- please!"

"You have to be perfectly still for this," you warn, "or I might miss... and if I miss, the toxicity levels might be enough to cause ****, sharp pain, and probably ****." She freezes in place, clutching both fists to her face as she looks up to you in a plea for pity. "We used to do this all the time when you were little... though you learned your lessons quickly back then. I'm not sure how long it will take, this time-"

"W-We did?"

"Why yes... I mean, your mother was always the one injecting you, but I watched her do it so I know it.... did you forget? I guess it could be traumatizing for a little girl, but that's what good parenting is all about, sometimes."

"But... but what's in them?"

"Just some light chemicals and saline water, baby... it's the discipline of the action itself that matters, but the chemicals will help make it hurt less and help you focus more on being a better person."

She continues to stare at the needle, and two small beads stream down her face. Confusion, fear, and acceptance all play out in that predictable, painfully easy play. "Okay..." She lowers her arms.

"Two injections, one into each of your breasts."

"What?!" Her arms shoot back up, but you give her a stern and steady gaze. "God, this... this sucks, dad!"

"That's why it's timeout, baby." And in you go: one needle and half the contents into each breast, injecting into the area just an inch above the nipple. Once she's left rubbing each entry point with a bitter expression, you put the **** away... and then reveal a jar of cocoa butter. "Now I need to rub you down with this, on every inch of your body."

She wrinkles her nose. "Why?"

To help prevent stretchmarks. "To finish our timeout session."

With such a direct feed of the ****, she wouldn't go a week before she starts to notice her bras, rarely as she wears them now, becoming uncomfortably tight. In a month, they'd be useless. You almost salivate while fantasizing about their prodigious growth by the time she started to realize her baby bump... and with these erotic thoughts, you begin to apply the butter, with its telltale, overpowering scent, onto her thighs, her stomach, her pubic mound with its barely-there fuzz from a day-old shave, and over her breasts with extra focus on rubbing and stimulating her nipples. She tries to suppress her little outbursts at these ministrations, but turns to full whimpering when you take your cock out, taking care to not slather it in the greasy substance (it's not sterile, after all) and shoving into her cunt mercilessly. Your arms slip and slide as they hold her to you, and she writhes and cries at the painful, almost-dry fucking you give her. With her glistening form and your fantasies about what she would become, you don't last long, shooting yet another load into her birth canal before letting her fall to the floor. "I hope you learned your lesson, sweetie."

"I... I did, daddy," she whimpers between sobs.

On that note, you send her back upstairs, scolding her one more time for her premarital sex, and pretending to be stern until she finally vanishes. You cuss as you realize you've started to stroke your meat with your still-buttered fingers, but the feeling is nice enough that you don't bother to stop. Later, when you jump into the shower to get cleaned up, you find yourself wondering when or how you'd know she's pregnant... and how to break it to her lesbian lover.