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"Stepmom finds his search history. Older women. Thick bodies. Taboo fantasies. Instead of telling his father, she offers to make every search come true."
She finds it on a Tuesday.
I'm at class when she texts: We need to talk. Don't tell your father.
I spend the rest of the day in cold terror, wondering what she found.
Catherine is waiting in my room when I get home.
She's sitting on my bed, my laptop open beside her. My stomach drops.
"Close the door," she says.
I do.
"Lock it."
I do that too.
She turns the laptop toward me. The browser history is open.
"'Stepmom seduces stepson.' 'Thick MILF fucks younger man.' 'BBW cougar takes virgin.'" She reads the searches without emotion. "Should I continue?"
"Catherine—"
"There's more. Hundreds of searches. Going back months." She closes the laptop. Looks at me. "All featuring women who look... remarkably like me."
I can't speak. Can't breathe.
"Your father would be devastated," she continues. "To know his son has been fantasizing about his wife. Jerking off to women who look like me. Imagining—what? Walking in on me? Catching me in the shower?"
"Please don't tell him."
"Oh, I won't." She stands. Walks toward me. "But there's a price."
Catherine is forty-nine.
She married my father three years ago, when I was nineteen. She's five-six, two-sixty, with silver-streaked blonde hair and breasts that could stop traffic. Her ass is legendary. Her thighs are thick. Her belly is soft and round.
She's everything I search for late at night.
And she knows it now.
"The price," she says, stopping in front of me, "is you."
"What?"
"I own you now. Your secret, your shame, your... fantasies." Her hand finds my chest. "I can destroy your relationship with your father with a single conversation. Or I can give you everything you've been searching for."
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying I've seen what you want. And I'm willing to provide it." Her hand slides lower. "In exchange for your complete obedience."
"Obedience?"
"When I call, you come. When I want something, you provide it. When I need relief—" She cups me through my jeans. I'm hard, despite everything. Maybe because of everything. "—you give it."
"And if I refuse?"
She smiles. Cold. Beautiful.
"You won't."
She's right.
I don't refuse.
"Good," she says when I nod. "Now. Let's see if reality matches your fantasies."
She pushes me onto my bed. Straddles me. She's wearing a summer dress that rides up, showing thick thighs.
"You searched for 'stepmom rides stepson,'" she says. "Two hundred and forty-three times."
"You counted?"
"I'm thorough." She grinds against me. "Now let's make it real."
She undresses on top of me.
The dress comes off first, revealing a bra that's working overtime and panties that are already damp. Then the bra—her breasts spill free, huge and heavy, swaying as she moves. Then the panties—her pussy is shaved, wet, waiting.
"Better than the videos?" she asks.
"Fuck yes."
"Good." She frees my cock. Strokes it. "Now show me what all those hours of research taught you."
I worship her.
I kiss every inch of her body—her breasts, her belly, her thighs. I taste her, tongue her clit, make her come on my face while she grips my headboard.
"God—you're—fuck—"
I slide inside her while she's still shaking. She's tight, wet, clenching around me like she's been waiting for this.
"Yes—that's it—fuck your stepmommy—"
She rides me. Uses me. Takes exactly what she wants while I lie beneath her, helpless and willing.
"You're mine now," she pants. "You understand? Whenever I want you. However I want you."
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours. Whenever you want me. However—"
"Good boy."
She comes screaming. I come inside her.
The Rules
She lays them out afterward, still naked, still straddling me.
- She texts, I respond. Immediately.
- When she wants me, I'm available. No excuses.
- In front of my father, we're normal. Nothing suspicious.
- In private, I'm hers. Completely.
"Break a rule, and he finds out." She traces a finger down my chest. "Follow them, and we both get what we want."
"What do you want?"
"I want a young man who's eager to please. Who worships my body. Who makes me feel wanted in ways your father stopped doing years ago." She leans down. Kisses me. "I want you."
The Routine
Tuesday afternoons: Dad's golf day. She's on my bed by 3:00.
Thursday nights: Dad's poker game. She's in my shower by 8:00.
Weekends: Whenever Dad naps, travels, or turns his back.
I'm her secret. Her stress relief. Her personal fantasy made flesh.
"Don't you feel guilty?" I ask one day.
"Do you?"
I think about it. About my father, oblivious downstairs. About his wife, riding me in his house.
"No."
"Neither do I." She grinds down harder. "Some secrets are worth keeping."
Six Months Later
Dad announces a business trip. Two weeks.
Catherine doesn't pretend anymore.
"Every night," she says, pushing me onto her bed—their bed. "For two weeks, you're not my stepson. You're my lover."
"And when he comes back?"
"Then we go back to hiding." She sinks onto me. "But for now..."
She takes everything.
And I give it all willingly.
The Truth
I realize something one night.
She stopped threatening me months ago. The blackmail angle is gone. Now she just... wants me. Genuinely.
"Why do you still do this?" I ask. "You could have stopped. Told my father. Moved on."
She's lying beside me, soft and sated.
"Because you make me feel alive," she says. "Because when you look at me, I'm not your father's wife. I'm something more."
"What are you?"
"Desired." She kisses me. "Wanted. Real."
The browser history doesn't matter anymore.
What matters is this—her body, her voice, her eyes looking at me like I'm everything she never knew she needed.
What matters is that I found what I was searching for.
Right here.
Right now.
"No more blackmail?" I ask one night.
She laughs. "I stopped needing it a long time ago."
"Then why do I stay?"
She pulls me on top of her.
"Because you want to."
She's right.
I really do.