The Stepmum From Dagenham

Dad met Tanya at the Wetherspoons in Romford.

Three months later, she's moved in. Three months after that, they're married at the registry office—her in a white dress two sizes too small, him looking like he can't believe his luck.

I can't believe it either, but for different reasons.

Tanya is forty-two and pure Essex.

Fake tan so dark she looks like she's been Tango'd. Acrylic nails long enough to put an eye out. Bleached blonde hair with extensions, eyelashes you could land a plane on, and lips that've seen more filler than a Christmas turkey.

She's also massive. Not fat—massive. Tits like bowling balls, arse like two beach balls fighting in a pencil skirt. She wears clothes that would be too tight on someone half her size and doesn't give a single fuck.

"Alright, babes?" she says every morning, wandering into the kitchen in a silk robe that barely covers her arse. "Put the kettle on, would ya?"

I put the kettle on. I try not to stare.

I fail constantly.

Dad works nights at the warehouse now.

Means he leaves at nine and doesn't get back until six in the morning. Means I'm alone in the house with Tanya from sunset to sunrise.

She doesn't make it easy.

"Don't mind me," she says, walking past the living room in just her bra and knickers. "Just getting comfortable, innit."

"Tanya, I can see—"

"See what?" She stops, looks down at herself. Her bra is leopard print, struggling to contain tits that spill over the cups. Her belly is soft, rolling slightly above the matching knickers. "Nothing you haven't seen on the internet, babes."

She walks off. Her arse jiggles with every step.

I don't sleep that night.

"Can I ask you something?" she says one evening.

We're watching telly—some reality shite she loves—and Dad's been gone an hour.

"What?"

"Your dad. Is he..." She chews her lip, which shouldn't be possible with that much filler. "Is he always that quick? In the bedroom, I mean."

"I don't want to know about—"

"Two minutes, babes. Three if he's had a few drinks." She sighs, adjusts her massive tits in her too-tight top. "I love him and that, but a girl's got needs."

"Then tell him."

"I have. He tries, bless him, but..." She looks at me. Really looks. "You're young, though. Bet you've got proper stamina."

"Tanya—"

"What? I'm just saying." But she's smiling now, that Essex smile that promises trouble. "If you ever wanted to help your poor stepmum out..."

She leaves it hanging.

I pretend I don't understand.

It's two weeks later when she stops pretending.

I come home from work to find her in the kitchen, bent over the counter, wearing nothing but a thong and those ridiculous heels she loves.

"What the fuck—"

"Close the door, babes." She looks back at me over her shoulder. Her arse is right there—massive, round, barely covered by a strip of leopard print. "Your dad's doing overtime. Won't be back till morning."

"This is—you're married to my dad—"

"And he can't keep up with me." She straightens, turns around. Her tits are out, heavy and fake-tanned, nipples pink and hard. "But I've seen the way you look at me. Same way I've been looking at you."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie." She walks toward me, heels clicking on the lino. "I've heard you at night. Through the walls. Wanking yourself stupid while I'm in the next room."

My face burns. "I haven't—"

"You have." She's right in front of me now, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something expensive her married life just started affording. "And I've been doing the same thing, thinking about you."

She grabs my shirt and pulls me in.

Her mouth tastes like prosecco and cigarettes. Her tongue is aggressive, demanding, pushing into my mouth like she owns it. Her tits press against my chest, soft and heavy.

"Bedroom," she breathes. "Now."

I follow her upstairs. Into Dad's room. Into Dad's bed.

I stopped caring about that when she dropped to her knees.

Tanya gives head like she's trying to prove something.

She takes me deep, gagging a bit but not stopping, her acrylic nails digging into my thighs. Her fake lashes flutter as she looks up at me.

"You like that, babes? Like your Essex stepmum sucking your cock?"

"Fuck—Tanya—"

"That's it. Say my name." She strokes me while she talks, spit-slick and eager. "Been waiting for this since I moved in. Watching you try not to look at me. Well, you can look now."

She stands, turns around, bends over the bed.

"Put it in. Don't be gentle. I'm not some princess."

I fuck my stepmum in my dad's bed.

She moans like a porn star—probably picked it up from watching them—and pushes back against me with every thrust. Her arse ripples, her fake tits swinging beneath her, her voice getting louder and louder.

"Yes! Fuck me! Harder, you soft prick—"

I give her harder. I grab her hair—extensions and all—and pound into her until the headboard's banging against the wall.

"That's it! That's what I need! Your dad could never—"

She comes screaming, clenching around me. I pull out just in time, painting her arse with it.

"Fucking hell," she gasps into the pillow. "Where have you been all my life?"

We clean up before Dad gets home.

She changes the sheets. I shower twice. By the time he walks through the door, we're sitting on opposite sides of the sofa watching morning telly.

"Everything alright?" he asks.

"Fine, babes." Tanya gets up, kisses his cheek. "Just keeping each other company, weren't we?"

"That's nice." Dad doesn't notice the look she gives me. "I'm knackered. Gonna get some kip."

He heads upstairs. To the bed we just fucked in.

Tanya waits until she hears the bedroom door close.

"Same time tomorrow, yeah?"

That was six months ago.

Now we've got a routine. Dad leaves for work. I wait an hour—just in case he comes back for something. Then I go to her.

Sometimes it's quick and dirty on the kitchen counter. Sometimes she wants it slow, in her bed, with candles and everything. Sometimes she just wants me to hold her after, tell her she's fit, make her feel wanted.

Dad suspects nothing. Why would he? His wife's happy. His son's helpful. The house runs smooth.

Tanya catches my eye across the dinner table, runs her tongue over her lip-filled lips.

"More potatoes, babes?"

"Yeah," I say. "Cheers, Tanya."

Dad smiles, clueless.

The stepmum from Dagenham was the worst thing that ever happened to this family.

Or the best.

Depends who you ask.