My Quiet Friend's Stepmom

I’ve been back from college for three weeks and already the summer heat feels like it’s crawling under my skin for reasons that have nothing to do with the weather. I’m nineteen. Ethan’s my best friend—quiet, shy, the kind of guy who still blushes when a girl holds a door open for him. His stepmom Vanessa is forty-two, and I’ve been staring at her like a starving man since I was sixteen. Long dark hair she usually keeps twisted up, full mouth, those heavy tits that move when she walks, the soft curve of her ass in yoga pants. Completely off-limits. Married to Ethan’s dad. My friend’s stepmom. Every dirty thought I’ve ever had about her feels like a betrayal, and I still can’t stop.

Ethan left yesterday for a two-week backpacking trip with some guys from his outdoors club. His dad’s gone on a business trip until the weekend. That left Vanessa alone in the big house and me with no decent excuse to keep my distance. She texted me herself: guest room needs painting before Ethan’s cousins visit, can you help? I said yes before I could talk myself out of it. Now I’m standing in their bright kitchen smelling coffee and her perfume, watching her pour two mugs while the morning light hits the thin white tank top she’s wearing. No bra. Dark nipples faintly visible. Tiny gray shorts that barely cover the bottom curve of her ass.

“You’re a lifesaver, Jake,” she says, handing me a mug. Her fingers brush mine and stay a second too long. “Ethan’s hopeless with a paint roller and I refuse to do this alone. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”

I already changed into an old T-shirt and cutoffs. We head upstairs. The guest room is stripped bare—drop cloths, cans of soft blue paint, two rollers. She bends to pry open a can and those shorts ride up. I see the underside of one cheek, smooth and pale, and my cock twitches hard enough that I have to turn away and pretend to tape the baseboards.