Best Friend's Mother: Stockroom Surrender

I’m 22, home from college for the summer, and I’ve spent the last three weeks telling myself I was only helping Lisa reorganize her boutique stockroom because Mark asked me to. That was a lie I repeated every single night while I jerked off thinking about his mother.

The boutique had closed at seven. By eight-thirty the front lights were off and the only illumination came from the single bare bulb swinging over the stockroom door. The air was warm, thick with the scent of new fabric, vanilla candles, and the faint trace of Lisa’s perfume—something expensive and floral that always seemed to cling to my clothes long after I left. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, some half-open, spilling silk, lace, and satin across the concrete floor. Lisa moved between them in a simple white blouse and a tight navy pencil skirt that hugged the generous curve of her ass. At forty-one she was more dangerous than any girl my own age. Divorce had sharpened her, given her a restless, knowing hunger that showed in the way her green eyes lingered on me whenever she thought I wasn’t looking.

We’d been dancing around this for years. Harmless flirting at barbecues, her hand brushing my chest when she laughed, the way she’d lean in too close when she asked me to reach something on a high shelf. Every accidental touch tonight felt like a live wire. When our fingers met over the same box of hangers, the spark was so strong I actually sucked in a breath. Lisa’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Not yet.

I kept stealing glances at her while I hauled heavier cartons to the back wall. The blouse had come untucked on one side, revealing a strip of smooth, tanned skin at her waist. A thin gold chain disappeared between her breasts, and I wanted to follow it with my tongue. My cock had been half-hard for an hour. I kept adjusting myself when her back was turned, but the growing bulge in my jeans was becoming impossible to hide.

We reached the lingerie section. Lisa knelt to open a long, flat box, and the movement made her skirt ride up her thighs. I saw the lacy tops of her thigh-high stockings and nearly groaned out loud. She lifted out a sheer black teddy—practically transparent, with delicate straps and a deep plunge between the cups. The fabric shimmered under the bulb like liquid night.

She rose slowly, holding the teddy up against her body as if modeling it for a customer. The silk clung to the full swell of her breasts. Her nipples, already tight, pressed visibly against the thin material of her blouse and the lace of the teddy.

“What do you think, Jake?” Her voice had dropped into a low, husky register I’d never heard before. “Would a woman my age look ridiculous in something like this? Or… would it make a young man lose his mind?”

She turned slightly, letting the light play over her curves. Her eyes locked on mine—bold, challenging, and unmistakably aroused. The air between us crackled.