I woke up with the usual problem: morning wood so hard it could drill through steel.
Groaning, I dragged myself to the bathroom, turned the shower ice-cold, and tried to think about anything except the woman downstairs.
Spoiler: it didn't work.
Twenty minutes later I was clean, dressed in jeans and a fitted black shirt, backpack slung over one shoulder. Homework done, phone charged, ready for another boring day at university.
Then I smelled pancakes and sin.
I jogged downstairs and froze at the kitchen doorway.
There she was — Valentina Rosewood, my dad's new wife, the woman the entire neighborhood called "the hottest stepmom alive."
Thirty-two years old.
Curves that should be illegal.
Tiny silk robe barely tied, riding high enough to flash the bottom of her perfect ass every time she reached for something on the top shelf.
She turned, smiled that wicked little smile, and flipped a pancake like she wasn't half-naked.
"Morning, sweetheart," she purred. "Hungry?"
My throat went dry.
Valentina had this habit of "forgetting" clothes around the house ever since Dad left for his six-month business trip.
And I had this habit of pretending it didn't drive me insane.
I walked up behind her, slid my arms around her waist, and pressed myself against her back.
She didn't flinch — she leaned into me, tilting her hips just enough for me to feel how warm she was through the thin silk.
"You're up early," she whispered, voice husky.
"You're up… everywhere," I shot back, letting her feel exactly how hard I was.
She laughed softly, reached back, and guided my hands to her hips.
The robe slipped open a little more.
No panties.
Never any panties.
I didn't push inside — we had rules (barely).
Instead I just rocked against her, slow and teasing, the length of me sliding between soft, slick heat.
Her breath hitched. She gripped the counter, knuckles white.
Five minutes of torture for both of us.
Whispers.
Little gasps.
The smell of pancakes mixing with something way sweeter.
And then we both shattered — her trembling against me, me groaning into her hair, making a mess we'd pretend never happened.
She reached for a towel, cleaned us both with practiced ease, then kissed my cheek like the perfect stepmom.
"Breakfast in two minutes, baby. Sit."
I collapsed into the chair, heart racing, trying to act normal.
She plated pancakes, bent over just enough to flash everything again, and winked, and slid the syrup toward me.
"Eat up. You'll need the energy for class."
I stared at the bottle in my hand and thought:
If this is how every morning starts…
I might never leave this house again.
We finished eating in comfortable silence, just the clink of forks and the soft sound of her breathing.
Valentina stood, gathered the plates, then paused.
Instead of heading to the sink, she slid into the chair across from me, robe still loosely tied, legs casually parted under the table.
Her bare foot found my lap in seconds.
Soft sole pressing against the bulge in my jeans, slow circles, perfect pressure.
I nearly choked on my orange juice.
She just smiled, took a calm bite of pancake with one hand…
while the other disappeared between her thighs, fingers moving in lazy rhythm.
Breakfast suddenly became the hottest show on earth.
Her foot sped up.
Her breathing turned shallow.
My hips jerked on instinct.
We didn't say a word.
We didn't need to.
Two minutes later we both came quietly — her biting her lip to stay silent, me gripping the table edge hard enough to leave marks.
She withdrew her foot, licked a stray drop from her ankle like it was syrup, and stood.
"Come home early today, baby," she whispered, voice husky. "Your stepmom gets lonely."
I could only nod, brain fried.
"Same here… Mom."
The word slipped out naturally now.
She loved it. I loved how it made her shiver.
I grabbed my bag and escaped before I dragged her to the floor right there.
Evening – 6:17 p.m.
Classes were a blur.
I basically sprinted home.
Found her in the master bedroom folding laundry, wearing nothing but one of my oversized college hoodies — and even that was slipping off one shoulder.
"You're just in time," she said, patting the bed. "Help me fold?"
I dropped my bag, kicked the door shut, and sat beside her.
Laundry forgotten.
Her thighs parted the second I was close.
I slid two fingers inside warm, soaked heaven without asking — she was already ready, always ready.
She gasped, handed me the pair of lace panties she'd worn all day.
"Souvenir," she teased.
I didn't hesitate.
Face-planted straight into them — her scent, her taste, driving me insane — while my fingers curled deeper, thumb circling that perfect spot.
Other hand freed myself, stroking fast.
She watched with heavy-lidded eyes, hoodie riding higher, rocking against my hand.
Didn't take long.
We came together again — her crying out into a pillow, me groaning into her soaked panties like a starving man.
Aftershocks faded.
She kissed my forehead, sweaty and sweet.
"I'm going to take a bath. Join me when you recover, baby."
She sauntered to the en-suite, hips swaying, hoodie barely covering anything.
I flopped back on the bed, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling.
University could wait.
Right now, the only education I needed was happening right here at home.
I woke up in the middle of the night to the most perfect weight on earth.
Valentina, my gorgeous stepmom, was straddling me completely naked, soft thighs hugging my hips, her warmth pressed against my already rock-hard length.
She wasn't inside, just gliding slowly, lovingly, her soaked folds sliding up and down my shaft, painting us both with the mess we'd made earlier.
Every roll of her hips was gentle, almost sleepy, like she was rocking us both back into dreams.
Our eyes locked in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
She smiled that soft, secret smile only I ever get to see.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she leaned down first, sealing my lips with hers.
Slow, deep, hungry kiss.
Tongues dancing, sharing breath, tasting each other like we had all the time in the world.
She never stopped moving, just that perfect slick friction, over and over, coating me in her heat, in us.
I groaned into her mouth.
She whimpered into mine.
Minutes blurred.
Pleasure built soft and steady, nothing rushed, nothing rough, just pure, intimate connection.
And then we fell together, quiet gasps muffled against each other's lips, bodies trembling in perfect sync.
Warm pulses mixing, spilling, making everything even wetter, even closer.
She stayed right there, forehead resting against mine, breathing the same air.
"Good night, my sweet boy," she whispered, brushing my hair back.
I kissed her nose. "Good night… Mom."
She smiled at the word, curled up against my chest like I was her favorite teddy bear, arms and legs wrapped around me, still connected in the most innocent-dirty way possible.
Within seconds we were both asleep again, tangled, sticky, happier than anyone had a right to be
Sunday morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I stirred awake to Valentina's gentle kiss on my forehead.
"Breakfast first, baby," she whispered. "Go shower. I'll cook."
I nodded, still half-dreaming, and padded to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later I came downstairs completely naked (Sunday rule: clothes are banned in this house on weekends).
Valentina was already in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron that didn't cover anything important.
Her perfect ass swayed as she flipped pancakes, pussy glistening, still leaking from last night.
I dropped onto the couch, flicked on the morning news for background noise, and lazily stroked myself while watching her move.
She glanced over, saw what I was doing, and smiled that wicked little smile.
Two minutes later she carried two plates over, set them on the coffee table, and sat right beside me, legs spread wide.
One hand fed herself pancake.
The other slid between her thighs, two fingers disappearing inside with a soft wet sound.
I matched her rhythm without thinking.
We just sat there, side by side, stroking, fingering, eyes locked, moaning quietly to the sound of some anchor talking about the weather.
It was the most natural thing in the world.
We came together, silent and perfect, her thighs trembling, my release painting my stomach.
She grabbed a napkin, cleaned us both with tender swipes, then handed me my plate like nothing happened.
We ate breakfast naked on the couch, legs tangled, feeding each other bites between kisses.
Halfway through, an idea hit.
I reached for the honey bottle, drizzled a thick golden line straight over her swollen lips and inside.
She gasped, then moaned as I dropped to my knees and licked every drop, slow and thorough, tongue fucking her deep, honey and her mixing into the sweetest taste on earth.
She came hard, hands fisted in my hair, flooding my mouth.
I swallowed everything, crawled back up, and kissed her so she could taste herself on my tongue.
She returned the favor, stroking me slow and firm until I painted her fingers again.
She licked them clean, eyes never leaving mine.
Satisfied, glowing, we curled up under a blanket, picked her favorite rom-com on the big screen, and spent the rest of the day exactly like that: naked, sticky, happy, stealing kisses between scenes.
Sunday had never felt so holy.