Power Outage
"A storm knocks out power across the county. Trapped in the dark house with his father away on business, the tension that's been building with his petite, yoga-obsessed stepmother finally ignites."
The storm hits at 4 PM.
One minute the sky is grey; the next, it's black. Rain hammers the windows like fists. Lightning cracks the world open, and thunder shakes the house to its bones.
Then the lights go out.
"Dylan?" Claire's voice from the living room. "Dylan, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I feel my way out of my bedroom, down the hall. "Just surprised."
I find her in the living room, silhouetted against the window by the occasional flash of lightning. She's tiny—five-one, maybe a hundred and five pounds—wrapped in yoga pants and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder.
Claire. My stepmother. Twenty-nine years old, four years older than me, and the reason I've spent every visit home in a state of confused frustration.
"The power's out everywhere," she says, checking her phone. "County-wide. They're saying maybe twelve hours to restore."
"Twelve hours?"
"Maybe more."
Another crack of lightning. In the flash, I see her face—high cheekbones, full lips, those enormous grey eyes that always seem to be laughing at something. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
"Okay," I say. "Candles?"
"Pantry. I'll find the flashlight."
We set up camp in the living room.
Candles everywhere—on the coffee table, the mantle, the end tables. The storm rages outside, but in here it's almost cozy. Warm light. Shadows dancing on the walls.
Claire sits on the couch, legs tucked under her. I sit in the armchair across from her. Safe distance.
"Your dad called earlier," she says. "His flight's grounded. Won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest."
"So we're stuck together."
"Looks like it." She smiles, and something flickers in her eyes. "You sound disappointed."
"No. I just—no."
I'm not disappointed. That's the problem. Dad's been gone for three days on a business trip, and this is the longest I've ever been alone with Claire. Every morning I wake up to the sound of her doing yoga in the living room. Every evening we eat dinner together, just the two of us, making conversation that feels too easy, too comfortable.
Every night I lie in bed thinking about things I shouldn't.
"Wine?" She's already pouring. "Nothing else to do."
"Sure."
She brings me a glass. Our fingers brush as I take it, and she doesn't pull away immediately. Just stands there, close enough that I can smell her—something light, citrusy, mixed with the faint musk of her afternoon workout.
"You're tense," she says.
"Storm's making me jumpy."
"Liar." She sits on the arm of my chair. Too close. Her hip almost touching my shoulder. "You've been tense since you got here. What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Dylan." She says my name like a gentle scold. "I've known you for three years. I can tell when something's bothering you."
You're bothering me, I want to say. Your body is bothering me. The way you walk, the way you laugh, the way you look at me like you know exactly what I'm thinking—
"Just work stuff," I say instead.
"Mmm." She doesn't believe me. "Well, we've got twelve hours to kill. Might as well talk about it."
We talk.
Not about what's really bothering me, but about everything else. Her yoga studio—she teaches three classes a week. Her friends, her hobbies, the books she's been reading. She asks about my life in the city, my job, whether I'm seeing anyone.
"No one special," I say. "No time."
"That's sad." She's on her second glass of wine, cheeks flushed. "You're too young to be alone."
"I'm twenty-five. Plenty of people are single at twenty-five."
"I wasn't." She stretches, and her sweater rides up, exposing a strip of flat stomach. "I got married at twenty-three. First time."
"First time?"
"There was someone before your father." She waves a hand. "Young, stupid, lasted two years. Then I was single for a while. Then I met Robert."
"At the gym, right?"
"Yoga studio." She grins. "He was the worst student I ever had. Couldn't touch his toes to save his life. But he kept coming back."
"For you."
"For me." Something softens in her expression. "He's a good man. I'm lucky."
Guilt twists in my gut. Dad is a good man. He doesn't deserve what I've been thinking about his wife.
"More wine?"
"Sure."
She gets up to pour, and I watch her move. Even in the candlelight, I can see every line of her body through those thin yoga pants. The subtle curve of her hips. The tight roundness of her ass. The lean muscles in her thighs.
She catches me looking.
Instead of looking away, she holds my gaze.
"Dylan."
"Yeah?"
"What are you thinking about right now?"
The honest answer: You. Bent over the arm of this chair. Those pants around your ankles. My hands on your hips.
What I say: "Nothing."
"You're a terrible liar." She comes back with the wine. Doesn't sit on the arm of the chair this time. Sits on my lap.
"Claire—"
"Shh." She puts a finger to my lips. "I've seen the way you look at me. Since the first time we met." Her weight is nothing—she's so small—but I feel every ounce of it. "I pretend not to notice. For Robert's sake. But he's not here now."
"We can't."
"Can't what?" She's so close. Her lips inches from mine. "Nothing's happening. We're just talking."
"With you on my lap."
"Is that a problem?"
Yes. Yes, it's a fucking problem, because you're my father's wife and I want to devour you.
"Claire..."
"Say my name again." Her hips shift. Just slightly. Enough that I know she can feel what she's doing to me. "I like how you say it."
"We should stop."
"Should we?" She rocks against me. I'm hard—achingly, obviously hard—and she grinds down like she wants to feel every inch. "Your body disagrees."
Lightning cracks. Thunder rolls. The candles flicker, and for a moment we're in darkness.
In that moment, she kisses me.
I've imagined this a hundred times.
The reality is better.
She kisses like she does yoga—precise, controlled, every movement deliberate. Her tongue slides against mine. Her hands grip my shoulders. Her hips keep moving, grinding, creating friction that makes me groan into her mouth.
"Claire—fuck—"
"I know." She pulls back just enough to speak. "I've wanted this too. Every time you look at me, I get wet. Every time you walk around shirtless after a shower—"
"I didn't think you noticed."
"I notice everything." She grinds down harder. "Now shut up and touch me."
I grab her hips. She's so small that my hands nearly span her waist. I pull her tighter against me, and she moans—high, needy, nothing like the composed woman who teaches yoga.
"More," she breathes. "Give me more."
I stand. She wraps her legs around me—lightweight, clinging—and I carry her to the couch. Lay her down. Cover her body with mine.
She's so small beneath me. My shoulders are twice as wide as hers. My hands dwarf her waist. I could break her if I wanted to.
I don't want to break her.
I want to ruin her.
"Sweater off," she commands, already pulling at my shirt.
We strip each other frantically. Her sweater, my shirt. Her sports bra—small breasts, perfect handfuls, nipples already hard. My jeans, her yoga pants. Her panties are soaked through.
"I've been like this all day," she admits. "Knowing we'd be alone. Knowing the power might go out. I've been dripping."
"Christ."
"Touch me."
I slide a hand between her thighs. She's not exaggerating—she's drenched, her pussy slick and swollen. Two fingers slip inside her easily, and she arches off the couch.
"Yes—fuck—right there—"
She's so tight. Tighter than anyone I've been with. Her body grips my fingers like it never wants to let go.
"Dylan—" She's panting now. "I need—I need more than fingers—"
"Already?"
"I've been waiting three years for this." She reaches down, wraps her hand around my cock. "Don't make me wait any longer."
I slide inside her in one thrust.
She screams.
It's a good scream—pleasure, not pain—but it echoes in the empty house, and I freeze.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Don't you dare stop."
I move. She's impossibly tight around me, her small body stretched to accommodate, and every thrust pulls another sound from her throat. She wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, pulling me as deep as I can go.
"Harder—fuck—harder—"
The storm rages outside. Thunder covers her screams, lightning illuminates us in frozen moments—her face twisted in ecstasy, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Been thinking about this—" she pants. "Every time you looked at me—every time I caught you—I went to my room and—ah—touched myself thinking about—"
"About what?"
"About you. Inside me. Fucking me while your father—shit—while he's at work—"
I slam into her harder. The confession drives me wild—knowing she's been as tortured as I have, knowing we've both been burning for this.
"I'm close," she whimpers. "So close—don't stop—"
"Come for me." I reach between us, find her clit, stroke it while I fuck her. "Come on your stepson's cock."
She shatters.
Her whole body seizes, cunt clamping down on me so hard I see stars. She screams my name—Dylan, fuck, Dylan—and I feel her pulsing around me, milking me, demanding everything.
I last maybe ten more seconds.
"Inside—" she gasps. "Come inside me—"
I bury myself to the hilt and explode. Pump into her while she's still shaking, fill her with everything I've been holding back. She moans, rolling her hips, taking every drop.
We collapse together.
The power comes back at 3 AM.
We're still on the couch, tangled together under a blanket. We've fucked three more times—on the floor, against the wall, bent over the arm of the chair. Her body is marked with my fingerprints. My back is scratched raw from her nails.
The lights flicker on, and we squint at each other.
"Well," she says. "That happened."
"Are you okay?"
"Better than okay." She stretches, winces. "Sore. But good sore."
"And when Dad gets back?"
She looks at me. In the harsh electric light, I can see the reality of what we've done—the hickeys on her neck, the mess between her thighs, the thoroughly fucked look in her eyes.
"He doesn't need to know," she says. "Unless you want to tell him."
"God no."
"Then we pretend. During the day, when he's home." She traces a finger down my chest. "But he travels a lot. And I get lonely."
"Claire..."
"I'm not asking you to replace him. I'm not asking for commitment." She sits up, straddles me. I'm hard again already. "I'm asking you to be here when I need you. To fuck me when I'm desperate for it. To give me what he can't."
"What he can't?"
"He's fifty-three, Dylan. And he works constantly. By the time he gets home, he's too tired to..." She rolls her hips. I slide inside her with a groan. "To do this."
She starts to ride me. Slow. Deep.
"So," she breathes. "What do you say?"
I grab her hips. Thrust up into her.
"I say the next storm can't come soon enough."
She laughs—and then she's too busy moaning to laugh at anything at all.