While He's Away
"Dad leaves for a month. His new wife and her daughter have been waiting. By the time he returns, they've claimed what's theirs—and they're never giving it back."
Dad kisses Gloria goodbye at the door.
"Take care of them," he tells me, clapping my shoulder. "You're the man of the house now."
I watch his car pull out of the driveway, watch it disappear around the corner, watch it become nothing. Four weeks. One month of business in Singapore, and I'm alone with my stepmother and her daughter.
I have no idea what that means.
Not yet.
Gloria isn't my mother.
My mother was thin, nervous, died when I was twelve. Gloria is... not those things.
Dad married her three years ago, when I was twenty-four. I came home from college to find a woman who filled every doorway, every room, every corner of the house. She's Black, forty-nine, five-six, and she has to weigh over three hundred pounds. Maybe three-twenty. Maybe more.
Her breasts are unreal—massive, heavy, hanging to her waist even in the industrial bras she wears. Her belly cascades in rolls, the lowest one reaching her upper thighs. Her ass is two planets, each cheek bigger than my head, jiggling when she walks in a way that makes me forget what words are.
She wears muumuus. Thin, colorful, hiding nothing. I've seen the shadow of her nipples a thousand times. I've seen the way the fabric catches between her thighs when she sits. I've seen too much.
I've wanted to see more.
And now my father is gone.
Night One
I'm in bed when my door opens.
No knock. Just the creak of hinges, and then light from the hallway, and then her—filling the doorframe, blocking out everything else.
She's wearing a nightgown. White. Sheer. I can see everything through it: the dark circles of her nipples, the heavy hang of her breasts, the round swell of her belly, the shadow between her thighs.
"Gloria?" I sit up. "What—"
"Shhh." She closes the door behind her. Darkness, except for the moonlight through my window. "I'm going to say something, and you're going to listen."
She moves toward the bed. Each step makes the floor creak. Each step makes her body sway—breasts pendulum, belly rolling, ass bouncing. She stops at the edge of my mattress.
"Your father hasn't touched me in eight months."
"I don't—"
"Eight months." She reaches down, grabs the hem of her nightgown. "He married me because he wanted someone to take care of his house. To cook his meals. To be there when he comes home." She pulls the nightgown over her head.
She's naked.
Completely, impossibly naked.
Her body is a landscape—mountains and valleys of flesh, dark skin gleaming in the moonlight. Her breasts hang heavy, nipples thick and hard, each one the size of my thumb. Her belly sags and folds, a soft avalanche of flesh that makes my mouth water. Her thighs are tree trunks, dimpled and vast, and between them—
She's shaved. Wet. I can see it glistening.
"I didn't marry him for that," she says. "I married him for security. For a home. But I have needs, Marcus. Needs he doesn't meet."
"We can't—he's my father—"
"He's not here." She climbs onto the bed. The mattress groans. She's crawling toward me, all that flesh swaying, her eyes never leaving mine. "He won't be here for a month. And I've seen you looking at me."
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie." She reaches my legs. Straddles them. Starts moving upward, her weight pressing me into the mattress inch by inch. "I've seen you staring at my tits when I bend over. I've felt your eyes on my ass when I walk away. I've heard you at night, in your room, and I've wondered what name you were moaning."
She's on my hips now. Her wet cunt is pressed against my boxers, against my cock, which is traitorously hard. All three hundred pounds of her is pinning me down.
"Whose name is it, Marcus?" She rolls her hips. Grinds on me. "Whose name do you say when you come?"
I can't breathe. Can't think. Her weight is crushing me, and her heat is soaking through the fabric, and her breasts are hanging in my face like ripe fruit.
"Yours," I whisper. "It's always yours."
She smiles.
"Good boy."
She doesn't ask permission.
She reaches down, pulls my cock free, positions it at her entrance, and drops.
I nearly scream.
She's tight—impossibly tight for her size—and wet, and burning hot. Her weight drives me into the mattress as she swallows every inch of me. I can't move. Can't thrust. Can only lie there while she takes what she wants.
"Fuck," she hisses. "I needed this. Needed a young, hard cock inside me—"
She starts to move.
Bouncing. Grinding. Rolling her hips in circles that make me see stars. Her breasts swing above me—massive pendulums, slapping against her belly, slapping against my chest when she leans forward. I grab them because I have to, because I'll die if I don't. They overflow my hands. The flesh is impossibly soft, impossibly heavy.
"That's it." She's panting now. "Touch me. Worship me. Show me what you've been dreaming about—"
I pull a nipple to my mouth. Suck. She cries out, her cunt clenching around me, her hips moving faster.
"Your father never—he never—fuck—"
I switch to the other breast. Bite gently. She screams.
"Gonna come," she gasps. "Gonna come on my stepson's cock—is that what you want? You want your stepmommy to come on you?"
"Yes—fuck yes—"
She slams down and shatters.
Her pussy grips me like a vice. Her body shakes—all three hundred pounds of her trembling on top of me. She throws her head back and moans, a sound that comes from somewhere primal, somewhere deep.
I can't hold back.
I grab her hips and thrust up, once, twice, and then I'm exploding inside her—filling my stepmother with my cum while she's still shaking through her orgasm.
We collapse.
She stays on top of me. Stays full of me. Her weight pins me to the soaked sheets.
"That," she breathes, "was worth the wait."
From the doorway, someone clears their throat.
"So." Keisha steps out of the shadows. "We're doing this now?"
Keisha is Gloria's daughter.
Twenty-five. Same dark skin, same wide hips, same massive breasts. She's smaller than her mother—maybe two-sixty—but she's built the same way: thick thighs, soft belly, ass that could stop traffic.
She works night shifts at the hospital, which means she sleeps during the day. Which means I've seen her stumble to the kitchen in tiny shorts and tank tops, her body barely contained, her nipples hard from the cold.
Which means I've wanted her too.
She's standing in my doorway now, wearing those same tiny shorts, that same tank top. Her arms are crossed under her breasts, pushing them up.
"Mama said she'd wait until I was home." She walks closer. "Guess she couldn't help herself."
Gloria doesn't get off me. Doesn't even try to hide what we've done.
"You were at work."
"I switched shifts." Keisha stops at the edge of the bed. Looks at where her mother and I are still joined. "I wanted to be here for this."
"For what?"
"For him." Keisha's eyes meet mine. "You think you're the only one who noticed, Marcus? I've seen the way you look at me too. At my tits. At my ass. At my belly when I stretch and my shirt rides up."
"Keisha—"
"Don't." She pulls her tank top over her head. Her breasts spill free—huge, heavy, young. She shimmies out of her shorts. No underwear. Her pussy is shaved like her mother's, slick and waiting.
"We've talked about this," Keisha says. "Me and Mama. About you. About what we'd do when Dad was finally gone."
"You planned this?"
Gloria shifts on top of me. I feel myself getting hard again, still inside her.
"We planned everything." She rolls her hips, and I gasp. "You're ours now, Marcus. For the next month. For as long as we want."
Keisha climbs onto the bed.
"Mama had you first." She crawls closer. "Now it's my turn."
They switch.
Gloria climbs off me, leaving me empty and aching. Keisha takes her place—two hundred and sixty pounds of thick, hungry stepsister straddling my hips.
"I've wanted this since the wedding," she breathes. "Watching you watch Mama. Wishing you'd look at me like that."
"I did look at you."
"I know." She sinks onto my cock. "Fuck—I know."
She's different than her mother. Wetter, maybe. Tighter. She doesn't ride me—she fucks me, slamming her hips down, using me like a toy. Her breasts bounce wildly. Her belly ripples with each impact. The bed screams beneath us.
"That's it," Gloria murmurs. She's beside us now, stroking herself, watching her daughter fuck her stepson. "Take what you need, baby."
"He's so hard, Mama—"
"He's young. He'll stay hard all night."
Keisha leans down, puts her hands on my chest. Changes the angle. I hit something deep inside her and she wails.
"Right there—right there—don't stop—"
I grab her hips—so much flesh, so much softness—and thrust up into her. She meets me stroke for stroke. We're animals. We're wrong in every way that matters.
I've never felt more right.
"Gonna make him come again," Keisha pants. "Gonna milk my stepbrother dry—"
"Do it," Gloria commands. "Make him fill you up."
Keisha clenches around me. Her eyes roll back. And then she's coming—screaming, shaking, her pussy gripping me so hard it almost hurts.
I follow her over.
I pump into her while she shakes, filling my stepsister the way I filled her mother. She collapses onto me—all that weight, all that flesh, crushing me into the mattress.
Gloria strokes her daughter's hair. Strokes my chest.
"Good," she purrs. "Now. We have a month. Let's not waste it."
Week One
They establish a schedule.
Gloria wakes me every morning at six. She rides me in the grey light of dawn, her body silhouetted against the window, her moans filling the empty house. She likes it slow. Deep. She likes me to worship her—to kiss her belly, her breasts, the stretch marks on her thighs.
"Tell me I'm beautiful," she demands.
"You're beautiful."
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you. Only you."
She comes with my hands on her hips and my cock buried inside her.
Keisha takes me at night. She's rougher than her mother—biting, scratching, demanding harder, faster, more. She likes to be fucked from behind, her massive ass bouncing against my hips, her face buried in the pillows to muffle her screams.
"Deeper—fuck—deeper—"
I give her everything. Every night. Until neither of us can move.
Week Two
They start competing.
Gloria wears lingerie now—lacy things that strain against her body, that make her look even bigger, even softer. She sucks my cock like she's trying to pull my soul out through it.
Keisha responds by ambushing me in the shower. She drops to her knees, takes me in her mouth, and doesn't stop until I'm shaking.
Gloria fucks me on the kitchen table, right where my father eats breakfast.
Keisha fucks me on the couch, right where my father watches TV.
They're marking territory. Using me to one-up each other.
I should be exhausted.
I am exhausted.
I never want it to stop.
Week Three
"This is ridiculous."
I'm lying in Keisha's bed, trying to recover, when Gloria walks in. She's naked. She's always naked now.
"What is?" Keisha doesn't cover herself. Why would she?
"This... rotation. This competition." Gloria climbs onto the bed. "We're exhausting him. And ourselves."
"So what do you suggest?"
Gloria looks at me. Then at her daughter. Then back at me.
"We share. At the same time. The way we talked about."
Keisha goes still. "Mama—"
"We've discussed this. For months. Before he was even our stepbrother." Gloria's hand finds my thigh. "Why pretend we're not both going to end up in the same bed anyway?"
Keisha looks at me. "Would you... want that?"
Both of them. At once. Mother and daughter, stepmother and stepsister, five hundred and eighty pounds of forbidden flesh.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Fuck yes."
Gloria smiles.
Keisha smiles.
They descend on me together.
There's too much of them.
That's my first thought. Gloria on my left, Keisha on my right, both of them pressing against me. Soft bellies, heavy breasts, thick thighs—I'm drowning in flesh.
"Start with Mama," Keisha says. "She was first. She should be first now."
Gloria straddles me, and I enter her with a groan. She starts to ride—slow, deep, the way she likes. Keisha watches for a moment, then moves.
She straddles my face.
"Eat me while you fuck her."
I grab Keisha's massive thighs and pull her down onto my mouth. Her pussy is sweet, wet, already dripping. I tongue her clit while Gloria bounces on my cock, and Keisha moans above me.
"That's it—fuck—right there—"
I can't see. Can't breathe. Keisha's thighs are clamped around my head, her weight pressing down. Gloria is riding me harder now, her belly slapping against mine. I'm lost between them—one in my mouth, one on my cock, both of them using me.
"He's so good, Mama—"
"I know, baby—fuck—I trained him well—"
Keisha comes first—flooding my face, her body shaking. Then Gloria—clenching around me, screaming her release. I follow, pumping into Gloria while Keisha grinds through her aftershocks.
We collapse.
But we're not done.
They switch.
Keisha takes my cock. Gloria takes my face. Mother-daughter reversal, the same overwhelming pleasure from new angles. Keisha fucks me hard and fast while I worship Gloria's cunt with my tongue.
"Taste your cum inside her?" Keisha pants. "That's so fucking nasty—that's so fucking hot—"
I do taste it. Taste myself mixed with Gloria. It should be wrong. It makes me harder.
They come again. I come again.
We switch again.
By the time they're satisfied, the sheets are destroyed. My cock is raw. My face is soaked with both of them.
And they're curled against me—Gloria on one side, Keisha on the other. So much softness. So much warmth.
"Every night," Gloria murmurs. "From now on. Together."
"And when Dad comes back?" I ask.
They look at each other. Smile.
"What he doesn't know," Keisha says, "can't hurt him."
Week Four
Dad comes home.
He looks tired. Jet-lagged. He kisses Gloria at the door, hugs Keisha, claps my shoulder.
"Everything go okay?" he asks.
"Perfect," Gloria says. Her hand brushes my ass as she passes. "Marcus was very helpful."
"Good man." He yawns. "I'm going to crash early. Flight was brutal."
He goes upstairs. Gloria follows—the dutiful wife, helping him to bed.
Keisha and I wait in the living room. Watching TV. Not touching. Playing our parts.
An hour later, Gloria comes back down.
"He's asleep." She looks at us. "He'll sleep until morning."
We go to Keisha's room. The one at the far end of the hall. The one with the good soundproofing.
They undress each other first—mother and daughter, stripping away clothes, revealing the bodies I've worshipped for a month. Then they turn to me.
"Quietly," Gloria whispers.
"Always," I say.
I fuck them both while my father sleeps thirty feet away.
Month Two
Dad travels again. A week this time.
The house becomes ours.
Gloria rides me at breakfast. Keisha takes me in the shower. They share me on the couch, on the kitchen table, in their beds. Every room. Every surface. Every hole.
When Dad comes back, we smile. We eat dinner together. We watch TV together. A perfect, functional family.
At night, I slip into Gloria's room while Dad snores beside her. She straddles me in silence, biting her lip to keep from screaming, her belly smothering me while I thrust up into her.
Keisha waits for us in the hallway. We finish in her room—all three of us, muffling our sounds with pillows and hands.
"This is insane," I whisper afterward.
"This is ours," Keisha says.
Gloria kisses my forehead. Then my mouth. Then lower.
"Your father gave us a house," she murmurs. "But you give us what we need."
One Year Later
Dad announces another business trip. Two months this time.
He kisses Gloria at the door. Hugs Keisha. Claps my shoulder.
"Take care of them," he says. "You're the man of the house."
"I know," I tell him. "I will."
The car disappears around the corner.
Gloria locks the door. Keisha pulls the blinds.
They turn to me—my stepmother, my stepsister, five hundred and eighty pounds of forbidden flesh. Waiting. Wanting. Mine.
"Bedroom," Gloria commands. "Now."
I follow them upstairs.
Into the room where my father sleeps.
Into the bed where he fucks his wife.
We defile it together.
And when he comes home, he'll never know. He'll lie in those sheets, kiss his wife, go about his life. Oblivious. Content.
The perfect fool.
Some secrets live in the walls of a house. Some secrets share a bed. Some secrets pass between a stepmother, a stepsister, and the man who belongs to them both.
We have ours.
And we're never letting go.