Stepmom's Solution
"Stepmom catches him with his laptop open. Instead of telling his father, she offers an alternative—she'll take care of his needs. All of them. Whenever he wants."
She catches me with my cock in my hand.
I don't hear her knock. Don't hear the door open. I'm too far gone—headphones in, porn playing, stroking myself to some thick MILF getting railed.
Then her hand is on my shoulder.
I rip the headphones off. Slam the laptop closed. But it's too late.
Patricia is standing there, eyes wide, staring at the tent in my blanket that I'm desperately trying to hide.
"I just came to ask about dinner," she says slowly. "But I think we need to talk."
Patricia has been my stepmother for two years.
Dad met her at some work thing, married her six months later. She moved into our house with her collection of floral dresses and her casserole recipes and her body that made me question every moral I thought I had.
She's fifty-one. She's maybe five-seven, easily two-eighty. Her breasts are enormous—the kind that make men stop mid-sentence. Her ass is two planets. Her belly is soft and round, her arms thick, her thighs capable of crushing watermelons.
She's also extremely conservative. Church every Sunday. Grace before meals. The kind of woman who says "making love" instead of "fucking."
Which is why I expect her to scream. Tell my father. Maybe call a priest.
Instead, she sits on the edge of my bed.
"How often?" she asks.
"What?"
"How often do you do this? Watch... that... and touch yourself?"
I want to die. "Patricia—"
"Answer me."
"Every day. Sometimes twice."
She nods, like this confirms something she suspected.
"And the women in those videos. They all look..." She gestures vaguely at herself. "Similar."
I can't speak. Can't move.
"I've noticed you looking at me," she continues. "I've seen where your eyes go when I bend over. When I wear certain dresses." She pauses. "I'm not blind, Tyler."
"I'm sorry. I know it's wrong—"
"Let me finish." She folds her hands in her lap. Prim. Proper. Like we're discussing the weather. "Your father and I haven't been intimate in over a year. He's always working, always tired. I have... needs. Needs that aren't being met."
"Patricia, what are you—"
"I'm proposing a solution."
She explains it clinically.
She'll take care of my needs. I'll take care of hers. No one tells my father. No one speaks of it outside this room.
"This is insane," I say.
"Yes."
"You're my father's wife."
"I'm aware."
"We could destroy everything. The marriage, the family—"
"Or." She stands. Walks to my door. Locks it. "Or we could both get what we need, and no one gets hurt."
She turns to face me. Her hands go to the buttons of her blouse.
"What's it going to be, Tyler?"
I should say no.
I watch her unbutton her shirt.
Her bra is white. Industrial. Straining to contain breasts that would make a porn star jealous.
She unclasps it. Lets it fall.
I've never seen anything so beautiful.
Her breasts are massive, heavy, hanging to her waist. Her nipples are thick and dark, hardening in the cool air. She cups them, lifts them, watches my reaction.
"Your father hasn't touched these in a year," she says. "Would you like to?"
I'm off the bed before I can think. My hands replace hers—weighing them, kneading them, watching the flesh overflow my fingers.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Language." But she's smiling. "That feels nice."
I lower my mouth to her nipple. Suck. She moans—soft, surprised.
"Oh... oh my..."
I switch to the other breast. Bite gently. She gasps.
"The videos you watch," she says, her voice shaky. "What do the women do? Show me what you like."
I show her.
I push her back onto my bed.
Strip off her skirt, her panties—plain white cotton, soaked through. Her pussy is covered in gray-streaked hair, wet and swollen.
"I've never... no one has ever..." She's blushing. "Your father doesn't do... that."
"Do what?"
"Use his mouth. Down there."
I spread her thick thighs. Lower my face to her.
"Then he's been missing out."
She comes in under a minute.
I'm barely touching her—soft licks, gentle suction on her clit—and she's convulsing, her hands fisted in my sheets, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
"Oh Lord—oh—I didn't know—"
I don't stop. I eat her through the first orgasm, into the second, then the third. She's sobbing by the end, overwhelmed, her whole body shaking.
"Please," she begs. "I need—I need you inside me—"
I stand. Strip off my shorts. My cock springs free, hard and aching.
Her eyes go wide.
"You're so... your father isn't nearly..."
"Do you want it?"
"Yes."
I climb on top of her. Position myself at her entrance.
"This is our solution," I say. "Whenever I want. Wherever I want. You're mine now."
"Yes," she breathes. "I'm yours."
I push inside.
She's tighter than I expected.
A year without sex has done something to her—she grips me like a fist, her walls clenching around my cock as I sink deeper.
"Oh God—you're so deep—"
I start to move.
She wraps her thick arms around me, her legs around my waist. She moves with me, matching my rhythm, making sounds I never thought she'd make.
"This is wrong," she gasps. "This is so wrong—"
"But it feels right."
"Yes—God help me—yes—"
I fuck her harder. The bed slams against the wall. She's going to have bruises tomorrow—on her thighs, her hips, wherever I'm gripping her too hard.
"I'm going to come again—"
"Do it. Come on your stepson's cock."
She screams into my pillow.
I finish inside her.
She asked me to. Begged me to. "I haven't felt it in so long—please—I need to feel you—"
Afterward, she lies beneath me, catching her breath.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asks.
"Tomorrow. And the day after. And every day until—"
"Until what?"
"Until I'm done with you."
She smiles. Reaches down. Strokes me back to hardness.
"Then you'd better get started."
The Schedule
Monday: her bedroom, while Dad is at work. She rides me on the bed where he sleeps.
Tuesday: the kitchen, bent over the counter. She makes him dinner afterward, still dripping my cum.
Wednesday: the shower. She washes me clean, then dirties me again.
Thursday: his home office. I fuck her on his desk, send her out to greet him with my load leaking down her thigh.
Friday: the living room couch. She sucks me off while he's parking in the driveway. Swallows everything.
Weekends: wherever we can. Whenever we can.
Three Months Later
Dad announces a business trip. Two weeks.
Patricia doesn't even pretend.
"I'll be in your room tonight," she says as his car disappears. "And every night until he gets back."
She is.
We fuck like animals. No more sneaking. No more rushed encounters. We have time, and we use every minute.
"I've never felt like this," she confesses one night. "With your father, it was... obligatory. Duty. This is..."
"What is it?"
"Necessary." She climbs on top of me. "I need you, Tyler. I can't go back to how it was before."
"You don't have to."
"What about when you leave for college? When you meet someone your own age?"
I pull her down. Kiss her deeply.
"Then you'll have to share."
She laughs. Starts to move.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
One Year Later
Dad still doesn't know.
He has no idea that while he's at work, his son is fucking his wife. He has no idea that the woman who cooks his dinner and irons his shirts spends every afternoon on her knees, or on her back, or bent over every surface in the house.
He's oblivious. Content.
And Patricia and I are insatiable.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asks, pulling on her robe.
"Same time always."
She kisses me. Walks to the door. Pauses.
"Tyler?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For saying yes when I offered."
She leaves.
I lie back on my bed, satisfied, spent.
Best solution I ever accepted.